


Made in Heaven

by exceptcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Matchmaker AU, Miscommunication, Slow Burn, is this a chick flick? i think it's a chick flick, mentions of Dean Winchester/Lisa Braeden - Freeform, mentions of dean/benny, minor homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exceptcas/pseuds/exceptcas
Summary: Castiel Novak is a matchmaker. Dean Winchester is looking to have a match made.When Dean and Sam Winchester decide that their dad, Bobby, is in need of a little romance in his life, they seek help the old-fashioned way: a matchmaking service. Castiel Novak is a rebellious matchmaker who is willing to bend the rules to help out the Winchesters. The catch: Bobby can’t know about it and they can’t legally sign him up without his consent. Enter in Dean Winchester, fresh off a broken heart and being forced to pose as the matchmaking client with Castiel as his pretty boy Cupid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly can't even believe i finally get to share this with you all! I had an insane amount of fun writing it and I hope y'all enjoy reading it. The wordiness gets better, I promise.
> 
> I want to give a big ol thank you to my wonderful artist [deadlykittenkay.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465339/chapters/35900928) Kay stepped in and saved the day and did it in style. And a HUGE shout out to [vaudelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin) for being literally the best beta I could have possibly asked for. 
> 
> this is my entry for the Dean Cas Mini Bang 2018 & I highly recommend you go check out all the other fics & art this fest has to offer.

          It was freezing in the car. The East coast wind was slipping through the cracks of the window, turning Castiel's fingers red. He could see his breath with each exhale. The guy on channel six had said it would be thirty-two degrees today, with a weatherman smile and a _stay warm out there, Maryland._ It was twenty degrees. Yet Castiel couldn't bring himself to either turn on the heat or get out of the car.

          The first option was not an option anyway. Castiel drove a 1976 Volvo station wagon. It had pros, sure, like the color (robin's egg blue), the price ($2,050 and a referral to an auto shop). But of course there were cons, like the way you had to jiggle the passenger's handle to open the door, or the fact that the heater just gave out on him the same week the heater in his apartment had.

          The second option was just unappealing. If Castiel were to get out of the Volvo, he would have to approach the office building. He would have to go inside and make pleasantries and smile and the thought of it made him appreciate the chill of the car.

          He was rubbing his hands together, trying to make up his mind when a black Mercedes Benz pulled into the lot. It swerved into the spot marked C.E.O. in white paint. The driver's door opened and Castiel nearly ducked. It was a childish thing to do; it's not like she knew this crapper was his car anyway.

          The woman who stepped out of the Mercedes-Benz was, in a word, high-powered. She had red hair pulled high and wore a well-tailored coat. It was seven-thirty in the morning and she already had a Bluetooth in her ear. Castiel watched her talk into it as she disappeared into the building. She would hate him if he didn't show up.

          Castiel got out of his car and approached the building, striding through the small empty lot. The building itself was tall and made of gray stone. The windows were outlined in black, the glass shaded blue. There were tall white letters above the doors that read _Made in Heaven_. The door looked like it should come equipped with a smiling doorman in a pressed gray suit. It didn't. The door — glass paneled and frosted — opened under his hand and Cas stepped inside, shaking the cold out of his hair.

          It looked the exact same as when he came in for the interview. Art deco blue tile on the floor, pale blue wallpaper with quiet floral designs curling over and over, lights with rosy bulbs. Plants everywhere, glass everywhere, gold touches and leather chairs, and somewhere a vanilla air freshener spritzing away. A receptionist sat behind the desk but it wasn't the same girl who had been there the week before. The girl last week — Ruby — had dark hair and sharp edges. She'd had a disaffected tone when she sent him back for the interview. On his way out, she had glowered at him over her french fries.

          The new girl, she had dark hair too and a leather jacket but her face was soft and pleasant. There was a dimple in her cheek as she smiled at him over a magazine.

          "Clarence," She said.

          That stopped Castiel in his tracks. He glanced around, just to make sure no one else had come in behind him. Nope. His eyebrows drew together.

          "Excuse me?"

          The receptionist leaned on her desk, elbows first.

          "You're the new hire? One of the cupids.” She raised an eyebrow, smirked.

          "I'm a..." He paused. It sounded so stupid. "Matchmaker, not a 'cupid.'"

          "That's what I meant, dummy." The girl leveled her gaze at him with a challenging look in her eyes. "I'm Meg."

          "Castiel," He replied, reaching to shake her hand.

          Meg ignored it and pointed down the hall beside her desk. "Naomi wants to see you before you start making those love connections."

          "Matches."

          "Whatever, Clarence."

          She went back to reading her magazine, not even glancing to see if Cas had started moving yet. He hadn't. He stood next to the desk, breathing in the vanilla and pretending that he was somewhere else. A bakery. A cafe. A bookshop aisle just after a stranger with lovely cologne had brushed by. Anywhere that wasn't this building. Any time when he wasn't about to start working under Naomi, officially. It was a moment he wanted to live in forever.

          Meg glanced at him and cocked a brow. This got him moving down the hall to Naomi's office. The door was ajar. He could hear her talking at a quick clip as he opened it.

          "—can _refer_ you to wedding planners but I will not be picking out floral arrangements or cakes any time soon," Naomi said. She stood at her desk, fingertips pressed against the paper-strewn surface. She looked up at him and smiled.

          "Anna, I will have to call you back. My son is here."

          Castiel took up a position behind one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. He dug his nails into the fabric. Waited to speak until spoken to. Naomi pressed a button on her Bluetooth and then it was just the two of them in a glass room, just as uncomfortable as the interview.

          "Thank you for joining me, Castiel," Naomi said, smiling. It was a business smile, the one that told clients that they could trust her. That stopped working on him in high school. Castiel gave a small nod. A pause. She tapped the surface of her desk with a manicured nail and moved around to the front. She leaned against the edge, didn't sit. Ann Taylor skirts were too expensive to wrinkle doing something as ordinary as sitting.

          There was another pause, longer, as she crossed her arms and studied Castiel's face. He forced himself to meet her gaze.

          "I know this is strange. But I really think you will thrive here, Castiel." Naomi tilted her head. He supposed it was meant to look sympathetic, unstudied. It looked calculating. "Don't you?"

          He felt like grinding his teeth. Castiel nodded.

          "Good. Then we're in agreement." Naomi pushed herself away from the desk and went back into business woman mode. She shuffled through papers while she spoke. "Your office is marked with your name, just down the hall. I'm sure you saw it as you were coming in."

          He hadn’t.

          "As the newest member of the team, you will be handling walk-ins for the first few months to help acclimate you to the clientele and handling the matchmaking situations. Your first scheduled client should be in tomorrow, though you will have to ask Meg for the details on that. The paperwork is on your desk as well as a gift from me." Naomi looked up at him and smiled. "Get to work."

          Castiel was at the door in two strides, ready to sprint out of the office and into the cold.

          "Oh, and Cassie?"

          He turned. The nickname nearly made him roll his eyes but he forced himself to look at her like an adult would.

          "Don't let me down," Naomi said, lightheartedly. Her lipsticked lips curled up at the edges. Her eyes were hard.

          It wasn’t Castiel’s fault that the door slammed shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

          The first thing Castiel noticed about his office was the flowers. They were everywhere. On the cabinet behind his desk, lilies swaying in their vases. Bundles of hydrangeas on the windowsill. The black orchid on his desk arced perfectly over, like it was bowing to him. The scent, all of it twisting together would have been lovely if he wanted to be here. It was like a garden, set up on the various mahogany surfaces. It was exactly what someone would expect when walking into a place with Heaven written on the door. Castiel was sure a client would come in, see the flowers and the leather chair and the deep teal walls and feel at ease. Like they were sitting in their grandfather’s study. Maybe that was the look Naomi was going for. Probably.

          Castiel shut the door behind him, quieter this time, and moved towards his new desk. Before, he had heard people joke about their work desks feeling more like a ball and chain. It was that cocktail hour conversation that people always chuckled over before downing their margaritas and licking the salt off their lips. It was just one of those things you said because, who likes to work anyway? But as Castiel touched the petal of the orchid, ran his hand across the polished wood of the desktop, he realized that the people who cracked those jokes never fully smiled when they said it.

         As promised, there was a small stack of paperwork on his desk along with a small box. It was white, wrapped in a black ribbon. _A small present_ Naomi had called it. Castiel pulled the ribbon off, dropped it on the floor. He opened the box. It was filled with blue fabric, with a gleaming bit of silver in the center. Pulling it from the box, it became clear under the warm light of his office that it was a tie. She had given him a tie. Already he could feel it choking, pressing in on his trachea and stopping his breath in its tracks.

          He ran his finger over the metal of the silver tie pin and brought it up to his face for closer inspection. Etched into its surface: NOVAK. Castiel sank into his desk chair, the seat swiveling gently with the motion. She had gotten him a collar. A leash. His chest felt tight and the tie was wrapped around his knuckles as he tried to breathe.

          It was a test. Another one of Naomi’s little games. When he was a child, she had done things like this. She would present him and his siblings with “options”. Choose the wrong one and you’d suffer the consequences. He was _allowed_ to skip family dinner to go out with friends but only if he could handle not eating dinner for the rest of the week. Not wearing this tie, making him Naomi’s monkey in a suit, it was not an option. The consequences always hurt too much. _It was simple_ , Castiel thought. _Freedom is a length of rope. She wants me to hang myself with it._

          He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the tie and only seeing a noose.

 


	2. Chapter 2

          Morning rolled around too quickly. The numbers on Castiel’s phone mocked him in the blue darkness of the early morning. _6:35 a.m._ Carlights passed by his window, sliding in red and yellow spots along his wall. Castiel tucked himself down into the mattress and shut his eyes, praying to _something_ that he didn’t have to get up, or that if he did, he could get out of going to work. No response. He sighed and pushed away the heaps of blankets and quilts he had piled on last night. The winter chill that filled the apartment sunk in and wrapped itself around Castiel’s sleep-warm body. He could feel the bite of it through his sweater and the t-shirt he wore underneath.

          Through his bedroom door, Castiel could hear noises from the kitchen. The clatter of a bowl against a counter. The sink turning on. Morning noises that he wasn’t used to but found pleasant to hear all the same. He got dressed — slacks, button down, and Naomi’s tie — and headed down the hall, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.

          Castiel’s brother stood at the counter, dishing ice cream into a ceramic bowl. He had the makings of a sundae out as well: sprinkles, chocolate syrup, caramel sauce, and the bag of cherries Castiel had told him was specifically off-limits for this purpose. Castiel sighed.

          “Does that really qualify as breakfast, Gabriel?”

          “Good morning to you too, Mr. Stick-in-the-mud,” Gabe replied with a grin. He looked to Castiel, who raised an eyebrow. “Look, it’s qualified as breakfast for the past two months and you haven’t said anything about it.”

          Castiel moved to open the pantry. “I haven’t been up to see you make that abomination for the past two months.” He pulled out the bread and peanut butter, shouldering his brother aside for some counter space.

          “It’s been two days and this job of yours is already ruining our relationship,” Gabe said with a laugh. “Speaking of, now that you’re mommy’s little angel, you can finally buy us that soda machine that we’ve always wanted.”

          “ _You’ve_ always wanted, you mean. Besides, we still have the heater to fix first,” Castiel said, pulling a butter knife from the silverware drawer. “And anyway, I’m not… I’m not her angel.”

          Gabriel paused in the process of drizzling caramel over the vanilla scoops to look at his brother. He looked amused at surface level. There was an underlying bite to it, one that Castiel knew meant he was about to say or do something ugly. Gabe titled his head.

          “ _Really?_ Then what’s that?” He nodded to the tie.

          “A gift,” Castiel huffed.

          “No, Castiel, it’s not a gift. It’s _her_ way of marking her territory. I mean, for crying out loud, she stamped her name on it.”

          Castiel slammed the butter knife on the counter, smearing an ugly mess of peanut butter and jelly across its surface. “What do you expect, Gabriel? It’s Naomi we’re talking about. Yeah, of course she’s going to make me feel like she owns me. It’s what she does.”

          He looked at Gabriel, still standing there in his pajamas, chocolate sauce dripped onto his t-shirt. For a moment, Castiel could see Gabe as a child again: his big brother, hollow eyes and a sweater ill-fitted to his body, sneaking candy up to their room. Hiding small foil-wrapped chocolates under Castiel’s pillow before bed so he could have truly _sweet dreams._

          Gabe sighed. “I know, brother. I just hate that you’re back under her thumb. I thought once we left that we were gonna be gone for good, ya know?”

          The brothers fell silent for a moment. Neither needed to hear Castiel say it but they both knew that he had thought the same thing. He had thought they were out, away from her games.

          “Is that why you said that thing when we left? How did it go?” asked Castiel.

          “‘Naomi, you’re my mother and I love you, but you are a great, big ba—” Gabe tried to finish but Castiel broke into a bought of laughter and Gabe couldn’t help but crack up too. Castiel leaned against the counter and grabbed his PB&J, still grinning.

          “That’s right. She did _not_ like that.” Castiel smiled. He took a bite out of his sandwich and Gabe wrinkled his nose. “What?”

          “I can’t believe you got onto me about eating ice cream for breakfast when you’re eating something from a middle schooler’s lunch box.” Gabe snorted.

          “ _You’re_ eating something from a kindergartner’s fantasy. Maybe that’s why you’re freezing,” said Castiel.

          Gabe, goosebumps on his bare arms, raised another spoonful of ice cream and sprinkles to his mouth. “Say that without shivering and maybe I’ll consider that idea.”

 

* * *

 

          The Volvo seemed to sigh when Castiel pulled into the parking lot, stopping in the space Meg had pointed out as his. There were wings painted onto the curb, indicating it as a “matchmaker only” zone — a sickeningly on-the-nose idea on Naomi’s part. The sidewalk on the way into the building was covered with blue specks of salt and bordered by melting piles of slush. Castiel’s shoes squeaked as he entered lobby.

          “Morning, Clarence,” Meg greeted, a sharp smile lighting up her face and putting a wicked crinkle in her nose. Her hair was up, loose and dark, stray strands framing her soft face.

          Castiel nodded at her. “Meg. You do realize my name isn’t actually Clarence, right?”

          This was met with a smirk. “Sure I do, _Castiel.”_ She drew out his name tauntingly, a slow, devilish sort of grin spreading on her lips. “Clarence is just your angel name.”

          Castiel tilted his head, eyebrows drawn together. “How is Clarence an angel name?”

          This gave Meg pause. She appeared to be torn between disbelief and amusement. She tilted her head too, dark hair flowing down her shoulder. Meg leaned forward on the desk to look up at him, chin in hands. Her elbows displaced her keyboard and a leather bound planner.

          “ _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , Castiel,” she said, quirking a brow. How did she get from Clarence as an angelic name to a statement about the joy of life? Castiel brushed it off.

          “Yes,” he said carefully, “It is. Umm… Castiel is actually the name of an angel already.”

          “Oh yeah?” Meg asked. “What’s he do?”

          “How do you mean?”

          “You know, don’t angels do things? Play harp, grant miracles, eat clouds?”

          Castiel chuckled, looked away from her unwavering gaze and pleased grin. He didn’t know how she could be so sure of herself all of the time. Meg’s confidence hadn’t slipped once since he had met her.

          “I’m not so sure about that. Angels are warriors, generally. It depends on who you ask. Castiel specifically has been considered many things but to me, they’re the angel of Thursday.”

          Meg leaned back in her seat, looking at him. The chair creaked under her. “Thursday, huh?”

          Though the light in the room was bright, her eyes looked dark. Meg opened the leather planner on her desk, flipping through the cream-colored pages covered with a dark, sloping script. Castiel shifted on his feet, unsure of whether or not their pre-work pleasantries, if that’s what one could call their conversation, was over. He was about to head to his office when Meg looked up at him, a dimple showing in her cheeks.

          “Yeah, I’m free Thursday. Pick me up around eight?”

           Castiel stepped back. “Excuse me?”

          “For a date, dummy. What, they don’t teach you about those at Johns Hopkins?”

          “Um.” He glanced around. Had they been flirting? What signals had he given her?

          The bell above the door rang with a sweet chime. _Saved by the bell._ Both Castiel and Meg turned to look. The woman coming in wore a floral shirt beneath a pink sweater and she was smiling a warm, lovely smile. Her hair was long and dark and she moved confidently. Castiel wondered why she was here — women who looked like that did not need matchmaking — until she stood next to him. That was when he saw how sad her eyes were, and beneath them: the concealed dark circles caused by many sleepless nights and lots of crying.

          “Good morning,” she greeted them. She turned to Meg. “I have an appointment.”

          “Who are you meeting with?” Meg said, the flirtatious edge gone from her voice.

          “Castiel Novak.”

          Meg glanced at him and the woman followed her gaze. Castiel cleared his throat and offered his hand. “I’m Castiel.”

          The woman shook his hand. “Lisa Braeden.”

          “Nice to meet you. Um. Just so you know,” Castiel let go of her hand and tapped a finger on Meg’s desk, “you are my first client.”

          Lisa chuckled. “Well, you’re my first matchmaker, so I think we’re even.”

          Castiel laughed, directed her down the hall to his office and turned to Meg. She was leaning back in her seat again. He stepped forward, ready to talk, clarify that he wasn't flirting, when she waved him off.

          “The date? It was a joke, Clarence. Unclench.”

 

* * *

 

         Gabe was stretched out on the couch in the living room when Castiel got home. He was wearing his internship suit still and he had a sucker in his mouth. _Game of Thrones_ was playing blue light from the television across his face. It was freezing and it smelled like brownies were baking in the oven.

         “Hey,” Castiel greeted, tossing his own jacket on the back of a chair and slouching into the seat. Gabe nodded.

         “Hey bro. How was your day?” Gabriel asked, staring at the tv. His head was lolled to the side on the armrest, his sandy hair spread out behind him.

         Castiel sighed. “It was good. I met my first client today.”

         “Oh yeah?”

         “Yeah. She’s a very nice woman. She was really patient with me when I was interviewi—”

         “Was she hot? Like, as hot as her?” Gabe asked, motioning vaguely to the screen. The woman with the white hair — Daenerys or something — took up the frame.

         “Gabe, I’m not going to compare a real woman to a television character. Yes, she was very pretty but she just went through a very difficult break-up and I—”

         “Castiel: always the stickler,” Gabe muttered around his sucker. He looked at Castiel, removed the candy from his mouth. Gabe pointed the sucker at him. “We should celebrate.”

         “Celebrate?” Castiel asked.

         “Yeah, your new job, your first client. Very celebratory stuff there, brother,” Gabe said, sitting up. He clicked the tv off and straightened his tie. “Let’s go out and get you absolutely plastered.”

         This was not something often suggested by Gabriel unless he himself had a bad day at work. He hated seeing his little brother drunk — flushed and slightly flirty. Castiel’s college friends, Balthazar usually, were the ones trying to get him ‘plastered.’ Castiel leaned back into the plaid of his chair.

         “I have work tomorrow.”

         “Tomorrow is Saturday.”

         “The newest hire always has to work weekends to handle any walk-in clients.”

         “Ick.” Gabe paused putting his wallet and keys into his pocket to shudder. “You sounded like Naomi just then. Come on, let’s go.”

         A timer sounded from the kitchen, the one on the stove. Gabe threw his head back and let out a dramatic sigh. He trudged to the kitchen, bumping into furniture like a petulant child. Castiel followed him. It was slightly warmer there, easing the chill he hadn’t realize had set in. There was also that scent of fresh baked goods permeating the air.

         Gabe opened the oven and they both relished the wave of heat from it for a moment before Gabe grabbed the tray of brownies and set them on the counter. He turned the oven off with a dramatic flick of the wrist.

         The chill had crept back in already. Castiel found himself leaning toward the oven, chasing its residual heat. They seriously needed their heater fixed.

         “You know, Castiel... bars are usually pretty warm, what with all the body heat and all…” Gabe tried.

         He was really pushing the bar idea. It must have been a terrible day at work for Gabe too. Castiel didn't know if he really felt like drinking, but any place with central heating was a place he wanted to be.

         “I'll even be the designated driver,” Gabe sing-songed. “I'll just be there for the frisky women.”

         Castiel rolled his eyes. He didn't want to watch his brother flirt and he definitely didn't want to bump into anyone in the kitchen the next morning. But Gabe was giving him the overdramatic, watery eyes.

          “...I'll get the keys,” Castiel conceded.

         Gabe fist pumped. “ _That’s_ my brother! Now hurry up, we’re gonna get you druuuuuunk.”

 

* * *

 

         The bar was in fact warm. It was the first thing Castiel noticed about it. The second thing he noticed was that it was not as packed as he was expected for a Friday night. Pink neon cast a soft glow on the maplewood booths and their greasy vinyl seats, on the pool table, the women at the dartboard, and the mirrored shelves of bottles filled with jewel-colored alcohol.

         He followed Gabe to the bar. He leaned against a stool while his brother ordered some fruity drink for him, the kind sure to have a lot of sugar in it. Naomi hated those. Said they do double the damage of regular alcohol — destroying your liver and rotting your teeth all at once.

         Looking around, Castiel noticed that the gender ratio of the bar was uneven; the number of women far outweighed the number of men. He wondered if that was why Gabe had picked this place. He turned to ask and saw his brother with an empty shot glass in front of him and a drink with fruit on the rim in his hand.

         “Gabe.”

         “Hmm?” Gabe made the noise around the straw of his drink, looking at Castiel with wide eyes.

         “You do realize you can’t drive now.” It was a statement, not a question.

         Gabe took another sip of his drink and patted Castiel on his shoulder. “Sorry, brother. You snooze, you lose. Besides, it’s not like you wanted to get drunk tonight anyway. Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

         “A fact that didn’t seem to matter when you were trying to convince me to come here.” Castiel sighed, sitting down on the stool.

         “Lighten up, Castiel. It’s warm, there's plenty of women, and look,” Gabe pointed to a nearby booth, “that guy has a soda. That means _you_ can have a soda too.”

         Gabe slapped his hand on the counter. “Barkeep, one soda for my very handsome, very nice, sober brother here.”

         The bartender, a young guy with shaggy hair and tired eyes, glanced over. He looked annoyed with Gabe already. _Castiel_ was annoyed with Gabe already, so he couldn't blame the guy. The bartender nodded and went off to retrieve a soda.

         “Don't say I never did anything for ya,” Gabe said, fiddling with the toothpick umbrella in his drink.

         Castiel looked at the booth again, the one Gabe pointed out. He wasn't wrong; there was a soda can on the table, surrounded by a handful of empty shot glasses and at least three beer bottles. Two large men sat behind the mess of the table, one with a loose expression downing another beer, the other watching incredulously but looking slightly amused all the same. The drinker, flushed in the face, turned and talked to his friend slowly, like he was having trouble thinking of the words and remembering how to move his mouth. His friend just nodded soberly.

         Castiel had a feeling that that guy was the soda drinker. To Castiel, the dude was just showing him the close future, in which a half an hour from now, Castiel would be patiently listening to Gabe slur about _Game of Thrones_.

         “Here ya go, man.”

         Castiel turned around to see the bartender setting a soda can on the bar, the condensation dripping in a ring on the counter.

         “Thank you…” Castiel searched for a nametag. Thanking customer service people by name was a quirk Gabe always made fun of him for.

         “Kevin.”

         “Yes. Thank you, Kevin.”

         He popped the top of the soda and raised it to take a sip. Beyond the aluminum can, he could see that the bartender was still standing there, leaning against the counter of the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

         “Aren't you gonna tell me your name?” Kevin asked.

         This was a strange turn of events. Normally, he would say ‘thank you’ and that would be that. He cleared his throat.

         “Cassie. His name is Cassie and if you get a few drinks in him, he'll actually flirt back,” Gabe chimed in, downing the last of his drink. “Can I get two more of these, _Kevin_?”

         Kevin nodded and locked eyes with Castiel for a moment, in which Castiel tried to look as apologetic as humanly possible. After Kevin had walked away, Castiel turned to Gabe.

         “You're a mean drunk.”

         Gabe snorted. “And you're a stiff sober.” He opened his mouth to expand on his insult but he just left it like that, staring over Castiel’s shoulder.

         “You look like a fish.” Castiel furrowed his brows.

         “Shut up and be cool,” Gabe whispered quickly and turned to face straight ahead, fiddling with the straw of his drink like he was calm and collected.

         “Two more beers, please.” The voice was a new one and it came from behind Castiel. He swiveled on his barstool and saw the soda guy. He was a giant with long, soft-looking hair and he was wearing a t-shirt with ‘Stanford’ on the chest in fading text. He was leaning on the bar, like he was trying to make himself more averaged-size. He had just spoken to the one of the other bartenders so politely for a guy that looked like he could break someone's bones with ease.

         Gabe leaned forward on the bar around Castiel to look at the soda guy.

         “Howdy there, handsome. What are you drinking tonight?”

         The guy turned and looked confused for a moment. _Has he never been hit on before?_ Castiel wondered. Maybe he was like Castiel, oblivious to someone's advances until a friend pointed out the flirtation. Then the guy broke into an amiable smile that lit up his entire face and he gave a little chuckle. _Of course he's been hit on. Can't go around looking like that and not get flirted with._

         “Soda, mostly. My girlfriend would hate me if I had a drink before I had to drive.”

         Gabe’s ears went pink. Castiel turned to the handsome stranger.

         “Sorry about my brother. Gabe flirts with everyone, especially when he's drunk.”

         “Hey, I am not dru—" Gabe started. The stranger and Castiel both looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Okay, you win. I'm drunk, I'm flirty, whatever.” He took a long drink of the pink stuff in his glass.

         Castiel turned back to the guy, who was still smiling like this was the most amusing thing he'd ever witnessed.

         “I'm Sam, by the way,” he said, sticking his hand out. Castiel shook it.

         “Castiel.”

         “Nice to meet ya, Castiel. I’d buy you guys a drink to smooth this over but I promised my brother that I'd pay for him tonight and he's running up a bit of a tab already.”

         Sam nodded to the man in his booth, who was trying to drain the last drops of a beer into his mouth. Sam, Castiel, and Gabe all watched as Sam’s brother ruffled his own already messy hair and got out of the booth. He swayed a bit but kept himself upright as he walked toward a small stage at the opposite end of the bar. There was a karaoke machine set up but nobody had touched it all night. Castiel didn't think people actually did karaoke, especially drunk karaoke. Sam's brother took the stage, microphone in hand.

         “Man, I don't know why I let him pick the bar. Every time he gets to pick, he chooses a place that has karaoke and he is a terrible singer.” Sam chuckled. Even though it was a snide comment, he said it with affection.

         “C’mon, he can't be _that_ bad,” Gabe said.

         “Oh, just you wait.” Sam laughed.

         The opening notes of the song played over the speakers. On stage, the brother swayed with his eyes closed. The song sounded like something by Fleetwood Mac, only worse. Sam winced.

         “This is worse than I thought,” Sam said.

         “What do you mean?” asked Castiel.

         “I mean—"

         “ _IMAGINARY LOVERS… NEVER TURN YOU DOWN,”_ The brother sang. His eyes were still closed and he held the microphone a little too close to his mouth.

         “I mean, this song is his go-to heartbreak song. I've only ever heard him sing it a few times,” Sam said as he watched his brother sway on stage.

         “Heartbreak song? What happened?” Gabe asked over the noise.

         “The girl he spent the last two years dating just dumped him. I mean, he'll say that it was amicable, but if that was true…”

         “Then you wouldn't be here,” Castiel finished.

         Sam nodded. They all watched as the brother continued to sing and dance. His voice was deep and it had a rasp to it, the kind you get from doing too many shots, the kind you get from crying too long. Sam was right; his brother was not a great singer. He half-sang, half-shouted in what Castiel could only call agony.

         It was the type of performance that you could understand being booed but nobody even heckled. Castiel only spotted some giggling from groups of women. When the song was over, the guy took a wobbly bow, nearly tripping over himself while standing still.

         Sam applauded and hollered, while Castiel and Gabe clapped politely with the rest of the bar. The brother made his way over, winking at every other person he saw. He looked like a sailor on a ship in a storm, listing from side to side. When he spotted Sam, he threw his arms open.

         “Sammy! Didja like the song? Nobody appreciates the Atlantic Rhythm Section anymore,” he said with a frown.

         Up close, the guy was even more pitiful than he previously appeared. The liquor store-scent on him was heavy enough to make Castiel worried about second-hand intoxication, if that were a thing. His face was shiny, his breath reeked, and though he wore a semi-glazed expression, his eyes had a sad confusion to them.

         “You did great, Dean. What do you say we take these beers to go and we can grab some burgers on the way home.”

         “Bacon burgers? No salad?”

         “Whatever you want.”

         “Right on,” Dean said gruffly, closing his eyes and rocking on his heels. Sam put a hand on his brother’s shoulder to steady him. He kept Dean propped up while he settled up with the bartender, Kevin from earlier.

         When Kevin handed Sam's card back, he looked to Castiel and gave a small smile, the kind Gabe said was flirty. To Castiel, it was simply a polite smile, the kind you made when making unexpected eye contact with a stranger. Castiel smiled back.

         Dean watched the exchange behind bleary eyes and gave a labored sigh before throwing a hand onto Castiel’s shoulder as though he were rescuing Castiel, but he wasn't too happy about it. Castiel looked at him with surprise.

         “Dean,” Sam said, a warning note in his voice.

         “Look, Blue Eyes, don't go for that one,” Dean said, pointing to Kevin, who had already gone to serve someone else. “He'll just make you fall in love with him and then he'll go and break your heart and then what? I’ll tell you what. You'll be alone forever. And you know _why_?”

         His breath was hot and sickly. It blew right into Castiel’s face. He tried not to inhale too heavily.

         “Dean, come on.” Sam sighed, trying to pull his brother by the shoulders. Dean shrugged him off and got even more into Castiel’s personal space. He reeked of scotch.

         “I'll tell you why. Because everybody leaves!” He gave a smile, palms up, like he was giving good news. “And that's _okaaaay,_ it's really... it's okay. Because… I've got my _brother_ and I've got you, Blue Eyes, and I just-"

         Dean stumbled again and Castiel half-caught him while Sam tried to help him up. Gabriel cackled in the background. Sam pulled his brother up completely, tossing Dean’s arm around his shoulders, and shook his head.

         “Alright, Dean, I think that's enough.”

         Dean muttered incomprehensibly, eyes drooped shut.

         “Do you need any help getting him out there?” Castiel asked, hand tentatively lingering on Dean’s arm, ready to catch him again.

         “Nah, it's alright. This isn't the first time I've had to carry him. Thanks though. It was really nice meeting you guys.”

         Gabe draped himself over Castiel’s shoulder to watch as Sam hauled his brother out the door, their two beers forgotten on the counter. Castiel could hear as Dean somberly asked, “Why did she have to leave me?”

         The door closed before he could hear the reply.

         Behind him, the soda can hissed as Gabe opened it, taking a slurp of the foam rising around the lid. He caught Castiel watching him and shrugged.

         “Snooze and lose, bro. Want me to get you another one?”

         Down the bar, Kevin wiped down the counter and cast little looks at Castiel. He thought about it, just for a moment. Order another soda, get Kevin's number, have someone taking up the other side of his bed. It sounded nice, comfortable.

_He'll just make you fall in love with him and then he'll go and break your heart and then what?_

         The words came back, slurred and rough in his mind. Drunk as he might have been, Dean had a point.

         Gabe snapped his fingers in front of Castiel’s face.

         “Dude, do you want a soda or not? It's been a long, crappy day for me already. Don't zone out on me now.”

         Down the bar, Kevin was looking. Waiting.

_You'll be alone forever, that's what._

         Castiel shook his head. “No, not at all.”


	3. Chapter 3

           By noon the next day, Castiel was exhausted. It was a Saturday, a day which he normally preferred to enjoy from the comfort of his own home. Or a library. Or a bookstore. Or his bed. It was less than desirable for him to be at work, fielding the few people who trickled in, curious about what a matchmaking service was doing in this day and age. The number of times he’d had to explain why Made in Heaven was a better, albeit pricier, option than dating apps made him physically nauseated. How often can one be expected to spout the same pre-wrapped answers (“ _ It’s more personal!” “Tailored to you!” “90% less unsolicited nudes!” _ ) without actually vomiting?

           It wasn’t just the dealing with the walk-in clients either. The morning had been… rough. Gabe had been awake when Castiel got up, hungover and grouchy and slamming ever cabinet door he touched. Perhaps it was just that he felt terrible or he was angry that he was awake and hungover. Maybe it was the fact that Castiel had put a halt to his drinking last night so that he wouldn’t be stuck trying to drag a passed-out Gabe to the car. Either way, Gabe was in a terrible mood and as Castiel had headed out for work, Gabe made an ugly comment about Castiel’s new job under his breath. 

           When he had arrived to the office, cold-handed and desperate for some coffee, Meg was nowhere to be found. The building was still locked up, the lights off. Castiel struggled with the keys for a solid five minutes simply trying to get his icy fingers to cooperate. Without Meg — who was  _ supposed  _ to be working the desk — Castiel had to sit in the lobby and wait for any walk-ins.

           Now, he sat slouched in one of the leather chairs, his third cup of coffee in hand. It was a little too bitter and it was going slightly cold but Castiel took another sip, partly as something to do, partly so he could stay awake lest any new curious people arrived. Though he was tired from the long night out with Gabe, he was grateful he hadn’t had anything to drink. A hangover would have made the situation entirely unbearable. 

           The door opened, sending an icy swirl of air into the lobby. A large man ducked into the room, turning over his shoulder to speak to the other man following close behind. 

           “—Metallica on cassette is way more lame than a Vince Vincente CD!” the large man defended, holding the door. 

           “In what world?” the other man asked in disbelief.

           “In—” The large man looked to Castiel and raised his eyebrows. “Castiel!”

           Castiel stood quickly, setting his cooling coffee on the table. “Sam, hello.” 

           The door hissed shut behind the brothers. Dean lingered beside it while Sam rushed forward to shake Castiel’s hand. Standing next to him, Castiel could really tell just how tall Sam was but the intimidation caused by his size was negated by Sam’s easy-going demeanor. Sam clapped Castiel on the shoulder while wearing a giant, dimpled smile.

           “What are you doing here, man?”

           “I work here.” Castiel hesitated, uncomfortable with his dumb job description. “I… make matches.”

           Sam nodded. “That’s great because we, uh, actually need a match made.”

           He glanced back to his brother, still lingering by the door. Dean was eyeing Castiel warily, his expression guarded. It was drastically different from the open way he had looked last night.  _ Alcohol will do that to a person,  _ Castiel thought. 

           “Dean, this is Castiel. We met at the bar last night,” Sam said.

           “Is this the flirty one?” Dean asked, features darkening further. 

           Sam turned back to Castiel and chuckled like they had an inside joke. He cocked a brow and nodded for Castiel to tell him.

           “No, I’m Blue Eyes,” Castiel said flatly.

           This had Sam laughing while Dean blushed and tried to adjust the collar of his grey shirt away from his neck. 

           “Yeah, well, sorry about that. I don’t really, um, remember… much. About last night,” Dean stammered. 

           Sam started humming “Imaginary Lovers”. Dean's ears went pink and he smacked his brother on the shoulder. 

           “So, uh, about that match…” Dean said.

           Castiel nodded. “Right. My office is down the hall.” 

           The two men followed Castiel into his office, Dean making a goofy, frowning expression at all the flowers. He looked like they were reaching out to touch him and the very thought made him ill. 

           “Were they having a sale or did a flower shop just throw up in here?” Dean asked. He shifted in his chair, still glancing around the room warily.

           Sam let out an exasperated huff, lips pressed flat. Castiel couldn't help but smile. 

           “They were here when I got the job. I believe my boss thought they would liven up the room or provide comfort of some kind.”

           “Yeah, nothing livens up a room more than dying flowers.” Dean scoffed.

           “ _ Dean, _ ” Sam said sharply.

           Castiel chuckled. Dean was very very different when he was sober. Less pitiful.

“It's alright. I agree. Flowers should stay in the ground where they can flourish, not in vases so they can wither,” Castiel said, logging on to his computer. “Not to mention the fact that it is entirely unfair to the bees, who—" 

           He turned away from his computer screen to see Sam and Dean watching him; Sam with bemused expression, Dean simply blinking at Castiel. 

           “Um. So. To start the process, I'm going to need you to fill out some paperwork and I can answer any questions you have about how we work.” 

           Castiel slid a clipboard with a few sheets clipped to it across the table to Dean. He had figured that they were there for Dean, after the display at the bar last night. Though he personally thought that it was too soon after a breakup to be back on the market, Castiel was glad that he was finally getting more clients, especially ones whose company he actually kind of enjoyed. He just felt bad for the poor girl who would be Dean’s rebound. 

           Dean was frowning at the neat lines of text. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and let out a sigh. “Sam, can you—”

           “We’re actually not here for Dean, as entertaining as that would be. We're here because we wanted you to set up someone else.”

           “I thought you said you had a girlfriend,” Castiel replied, tilting his head slightly.

           “Are you sure this isn’t the one that was flirting with you?” Dean muttered.

           Sam rolled his eyes.

           “I do have a girlfriend. Her name is Jess. Um, we’re here for our dad, actually. Well, step-dad. Father figure?” Sam tried.

           Dean picked up on Castiel’s confusion and stepped in. “We want you to make a match for our dad, Bobby Singer.”

           In his mind, Castiel could see that referral for the auto shop, its corners bent, the sheet creased and still in the glove compartment. “Singer? Like Singer Auto?”

           “Yeah, that’s Bobby.” Sam grinned. “We’re just worried about him, you know? I mean, he hasn’t had a date in a long time, and since Charlie, uh, our sister, left for college, his house has been empty and we just think he’s been kind of lonely.”

           Castiel thought of Naomi, alone in the penthouse, drinking red wine by herself on the rooftop terrace in the evenings. 

           “That's understandable. Will he be arriving later or should I schedule a separate time to meet with him?”

           Dean cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, “We were hoping to keep this under the radar.” 

           “Excuse me?” 

           “Yeah, we kind of don't want Bobby to know about this,” Sam chimed in.

           Both of the boys were emanating awkwardness. They obviously knew their request was unorthodox.

           “I’m not sure I understand. Why would you not want to tell him?”

           Sam splayed his hands. “Bobby is a real stoic guy, you know? He'll just tell us that he's fine on his own and he could get his own dates and—"

           “That he doesn't need us pimping him out,” Dean said. “But he does.”

           “He needs your help,” Castiel repeated.

           The boys nodded.

           “Being… ‘pimped out?’” 

           Sam wiped his hands down his face. “We just don't want him to be alone forever.”

           Castiel couldn't help but shift his gaze to Dean, who was focused on the edge of Castiel’s desk.  _ You'll be alone forever, that's what. _

           “Okay,” Castiel said.

           Dean whipped his head up and Sam's eyes widened. 

           “Okay?” Dean asked, unsure of the reality of what he'd just heard.

           “Yes, I'll help your father."

           Sam's grin was near infectious. Dean settled back into his seat like a weight was just removed from his shoulders, muttering ‘awesome’ under his breath. 

           “However, I can't do any paperwork under his name. And, my superior will expect me to have an actual client to meet with and send on dates.” 

           He tried to not mention the fact that he needed the extra money.

           Sam shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “So what you’re saying is…”

           “One of you needs to pose as a client,” Castiel said.

           There was a heaviness to the air as they all realized who it was going to be. Even under the bright winter light streaming in through the windows, Dean's face was clouded, dark. He worked the muscle in his jaw. 

           “Dean, you know I would, but Jess—"

           “It's fine, Sammy,” Dean said, turning to Castiel. “Where do I sign or whatever?”

           The image of Dean swaying drunkenly on stage at the bar flashed through Castiel’s head. That agonized singing, and the handful of shot glasses, all empty. 

           “To be clear, you will have to go on dates. If you're not comfortable with that, I'm sure we can work out something else.”

           Dean met his eyes. The set of his brow, the curve of his mouth, even the line of his shoulders, were tense with determination. 

           “I can handle a few dates. Where do I sign?” 

           Castiel pointed to the forms on the clipboard, still in front of Dean, and directed him to fill them out, tossing a pen his way. He clicked back to his computer, pulling up the calendar. 

           “As part of the process, we are going to have to meet and conduct a personal interview so I can get to know you — or, I suppose Mr. Singer, — and create more personalized matches. The interview is supposed to be very in-depth and can sometimes take up to two hours.”

           “Awesome,” Dean muttered under his breath.

           They struggled to find an appointment time that would work for the both of them; Dean's work hours matched Castiel’s almost exactly. Finally, they settled on after-work hours, agreeing that Castiel would just stay late at the office the following Thursday and wait for Dean.

           “Thank you so much for doing this,” Sam said as they all rose from their seats and headed to the door. Castiel shook Sam's outstretched hand.

           “It's no problem at all.” 

           He eyed Dean, who stood sulking by the door, arms crossed. Castiel looked back to Sam.

           “I'm sure Mr. Singer won't be disappointed. Though the lovers we have here aren't imaginary, they never let you down,” Castiel said.

           Dean perked up at the song lyrics, the soft jab Castiel had given him. Though he smacked Sam on the shoulder for laughing, there was something different in the way he looked at Castiel. Something lighter. He nodded to Castiel as he and Sam went out the door. The bell rang gently as they left.

 

* * *

 

          Gabe was wrapped up in a blanket, legs crossed on his chair. Castiel sat next to him at the dining room table, wearing two sweaters himself. It was dark outside, which meant the temperature had dropped drastically. Their breath puffed out in front of them. 

           The overhead light cast a warm sheen on the whipped cream of Gabe’s dinner: strawberry shortcake. He kept taking bites then dropping his fork back onto his plate with a clatter, tucking his hands back into his blanket while he chewed. 

           Castiel shifted back in his seat.

           “You remember those men we met last night?” he asked.

           “The tall drink of water and his drunk brother? Yeah, I remember them.” Gabe nodded.

           “They came into the office today.”

           Gabe dropped his fork again. The tines of it fell into the whipped cream, splattering it on the table. “And the big one said, ‘I dumped my girlfriend and now I’m looking for your hot brother?’”

           Castiel laughed, getting up to grab some paper towels from the kitchen. “They wanted a match made.” He stepped back into the dining room and cut Gabe off. “And no, they were not looking to have a match made with  _ you. _ ”

           Gabe reached his hand up from under the blanket to draw an imaginary tear running down his cheek with his middle finger.

           After wiping the whipped cream off the table, Castiel sat back down, picking sesame seeds from the bun of his burger. “They want me to match up their dad with someone.”

           “If he looks anything like them, sign me up,” Gabe cracked, reaching for his fork again. “Man, I love your job.”

           “You hate my job,” Castiel said.

           “I love your job when you get to hang around near that hot dude all the time. What's his name, again?”

           “Dean,” Castiel replied.

           Gabe raised a brow. “Not that one. The one  _ I  _ think is hot." 

           Castiel could feel a slight creep of blush on his neck. 

           “Sam. That's Sam.” 

           A dreamy sighed sounded from Gabe. “Sam. I mean, don't get me wrong, the other dude is still banging. I wish I could spend some one-on-one time with him. Lucky you.” 

           “Lucky me,” Castiel repeated.


	4. Chapter 4

           The days moved by in a blur. Castiel met with his few clients, suffering through their entrance interviews. Some were mundane, some too strange to bear. Lisa Braeden seemed to be the most normal of the bunch; she had a strong, quiet confidence and a way about her that made Castiel instantly comfortable. But for the most part, it was talking to lonely people and filling out stacks upon stacks of paperwork. 

           It was Thursday evening. His co-workers, none of whom he knew the names of, were all packing up and heading out. Castiel sat at his desk, the door to his office shut. He’d made the mistake of leaving it open a few days before and someone had poked their head in, tried to make conversation, leading off by calling him “Naomi’s boy.” He kept the door closed at all times now.

           Castiel was flipping through the menu of a local Chinese restaurant, trying to decide what to have delivered. He couldn’t leave the office to get any dinner without running the risk of missing his post-work appointment with Dean. Castiel picked up the phone and dialed the restaurant.

           It was just as he was asking whether they delivered soup that there was a knock on the door and it creaked open. Naomi’s face appeared. Castiel ground his teeth. His mother stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She gave him a gesture that he took to mean  _ I’ll wait.  _

           “Sir? Are you still there?” said a voice from the other end of the line.

           “Yes. I’m still here. I’ll have two orders of the vegetarian spring rolls.” Castiel looked up at Naomi.

           She was walking around his office, leaning in to look at objects as though she had never seen them before. As though she hadn’t carefully hand-selected each item, weighed what significance it might have on the overall mood of the room, or how it might reflect on her.

           “One order of the pork dumplings.” Castiel consulted the menu, stalling for time. “A pan-fried sesame pancake. The pan-fried vegetable buns.”

           Naomi was watching him, just out of the corner of her eye. There was no telling why she was here. It was childish to keep ordering just to delay whatever conversation she had planned to have with him. And yet…

           “Also some hot and sour soup, wonton soup. How’s the cilantro lime fish?” Castiel asked.

           The worker on the other end laughed. “Are y’all having a party?”

           Castiel looked up at Naomi again. “...Yes.”

           After Castiel had provided the address for delivery and nearly choked at the total cost of his diversion, he hung up. It was just him and Naomi. She finally decided to settle on the arm of a chair, putting a crease in her skirt. Her hands were folded in her lap, her shoulders straight. Posture always was of value to her - it was why Castiel sat half-slumped over.

           “How are you, Castiel?” Naomi asked.

           Her voice was soothing yet clinical. The voice you would expect to wake up to in a hospital, or from a mental health professional. She even had the sympathetic head tilt nailed. 

           "Fine,” Castiel said.

           “I mean, how are you doing  _ here _ ? I saw in your file that you already have five clients. Very impressive.”

           Castiel didn’t reply. There was a terse silence in which Naomi flattened her lips and smoothed out her skirt. There was something fidgety about her. This was odd; Naomi never fidgeted. It was uncharted territory. Castiel didn’t know what to expect.

           “So you have a client coming after work?” Naomi asked.

           “Yes.” 

           Naomi was quiet, nodding to herself. “That's good. Don't keep Meg past six,” she said, though it was absent of her normal powerful tone. It sounded like a gentle reminder.

           “I won't,” Castiel said carefully.

           They fell silent. It was clear that Naomi was working herself up to say something. Finally, she stood, turning her back to Castiel as she pretended to inspect a bundle of flowers.

           “How are things at home?” she asked. “Aren't you and Gabriel living downtown?”

           “Yes,” Castiel said. He was unsure of where she was going with this.

           Naomi reached out, picking up a wilted flower petal from the bookcase. “How is Gabriel?” 

           Despite her casual tone, there was an underlying note of pain to the question. It caught Castiel off-guard.

           “Why do you care?” Castiel asked.

           A pause. “He  _ is  _ my child, Castiel. I worry about him. We haven't spoken in so long.”

           Castiel took a deep breath, reining himself in. His fists were clenched, his jaw tense. “You haven't spoken for three years because Gabe doesn't want to speak to you.” The words came out harsher than he meant. 

           “You don't think I know that?” Naomi said, turning to face him. “Why do you think I'm asking you, Castiel? Is it so wrong for me to want to know if my child is alright?”

           There were so many things Castiel wanted to say in reply, the least of which being,  _ You didn't seem to care how he was doing when he lived with you.  _

__ “He is doing perfectly fine. Except for the fact that every time he has a bad day, he wants to go get drunk. I wonder where he got that from.” 

           Naomi’s face reddened. She stared at Castiel, grinding her teeth for a moment before moving to the door. 

           “Don't forget to lock up when you leave,” Naomi said in a strained voice.

           She slammed the door behind her. The shudder of it made petals fall all around the room.

           An hour later, the halls of the office were darkened. The only light came from the lobby and Castiel’s office, where he had turned off the overhead light in favor of desk and floor lamps. Since Naomi’s visit, a dull migraine had taken shape in Castiel’s head. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his food never arrived ( _ The bright banner on the restaurant’s website reading ‘delivery in under thirty minutes, guaranteed!’ was a filthy lie.)  _ but mostly, Castiel felt entitled to blame it on Naomi.

           All throughout their childhood, she had ample chances to check how Gabriel was doing. She’d had the time to sit and talk to him, time she had squandered on wine and other people’s love lives. Castiel had no idea how she felt she had any right to Gabe’s life. Surely simply having birthed Gabriel didn’t give her the right to be friends with him after having neglected and emotionally battered him for nearly two decades.

           A knock sounded from Castiel’s door. He jumped up from the couch beneath the windowsill, trying to flatten his hair. It always got mucked up when he laid down and for the past hour, Castiel had been lying on the couch in his office, trying to ease the slow growth of the migraine. 

           “Come in!” Castiel called out, moving around to his desk chair. 

           Castiel had expected Meg’s face to peek through the door as it opened. Instead, it was Dean. He pushed the door open wider and shut it behind him.

           “Oh. Hello, Dean.”

           Dean nodded to him in greeting while taking in the darkness of the room. He sunk into one of the chairs in front of Castiel’s desk. “Forget to pay the electric?” Dean asked, jutting his chin toward the orange glow of the desk lamp.

           “Um, no,” Castiel said, yanking open his desk drawer. “I had a migraine, which can be irritated by exposure to harsh lighting.”

           Dean nodded. “Plus, it's easier to sleep with the lights off.” 

           Castiel furrowed his brow. He hadn't mentioned anything about sleeping on his couch, had he? 

           Dean gestured to his own hair, palm flat. “You got the whole ‘just rolled outta bed’ thing going on up there.”

           “Oh.” Castiel reached up to try and smooth his hair down. “Is that better?”

           Dean chuckled. “Sure. So, are the lights staying off or…”

           “If you don't mind.” Castiel didn't want to make him uncomfortable, but the dull throb in his head was still there and the bright lights overhead would only make it worse.

            “It's your office, man. Keep ‘em off, turn ‘em on, break out the strobes, I don't care.” 

            Castiel tilted his head slightly. This man was so peculiar.

           “Okay. Well, let's get started with the interview then.” Castiel had the sheets of questions and a notebook labeled ‘Winchester, Dean.’ 

           “Would you like to start with Mr. Singer or yourself?” asked Castiel.

           “Myself? I thought I was just here to tell you about Bobby,” Dean said.

           “You are. But if you're going to pretend to be my client, I'm going to need the same amount of information about you that I have for all of my clients. I can't avoid jumping through the hoops here. My boss…” He paused, seeing Naomi’s face flushed with anger. “She's watching me very closely.”

          It was a lot of information to take in. Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Alright, go ahead. Quiz me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, spiking it up and making it look wild.

          Castiel couldn't help but give a small smile.

          “What?” Dean asked. 

          “Nothing,” Castiel said. Dean watched him closely though, expectantly, so Castiel copied Dean's motion from earlier, gesturing towards his hair. “Now you're the one who looks like he just got out of bed.” 

           Dean grabbed an empty picture frame from Castiel's desk and caught the light on the glass so he could see his reflection. “You're not wrong.” He ruffled his hair again as he looked at himself. “Man, I wish I looked this good getting out of bed.” Dean chuckled.

           “Um, yeah,” Castiel said carefully, reaching to take the frame from Dean. His fingers overlapped Dean's. His knuckles were a little rough, like his hands were dry from working. Castiel hurried to put the frame back on the desk, clearing his throat. 

           “So, how about we start with some basic information about Mr. Singer?”

           “He loves whiskey and trucker hats,” Dean replied instantly.

           Castiel gave him a pointed look, throwing in a slightly arched brow. Dean raised his hands. “Sorry, sorry.” 

           Leaning back in his chair, Dean closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head. He looked at ease. With the warm glow from the lamp washing over his face and the messy way his hair was ruffled, Dean looked as though he could be at home, dozing off after a long day.

           “Bobby Singer. He's 58 years old. Born and raised in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He moved to Maryland after his wife, Karen, passed. He owns an auto shop and salvage yard.” 

           He paused, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. He wiped his hands over his eyes, down his face. It seemed like he was stalling. Like he was uncomfortable talking about this. “He adopted me and my brother when I was a teenager and Sammy was a kid. Then he adopted Charlie.” Dean finally looked up at Castiel, writing in the notebook. “Is that good?” 

           “Do you know when Mr. Singer last had a date?” Castiel asked.

           This was met with a huffing laugh. “When was Obama elected?” 

           Castiel set his pen down. “You're kidding.” 

           Dean laughed again, a rough, pleasant sound. It was nice to see him smile while he was sober. He had a nice smile, all straight teeth and bright eyes. 

           “I'm not, man. He said they started talking about the election on the date and it ended with some harsh words. Hasn't been on a date since.”

           “So similar political ideology is important to him?” Castiel asked. 

           Dean considered this. “Nah. I think he'd like having someone who challenged him but only if they were being smart about it, you know?”

           Castiel nodded sagely, scribbling some more notes in dark, swirling ink. “Can you describe his personality a bit?”

           “Gruff. He's… I dunno. He's really smart. He knows how to fix an engine that most shops think are beyond repair. He knows a lot about mythology and stuff.” Dean got a little smile on his face. “I remember, when Sammy was a kid, he'd pull Bobby’s books down and lay ‘em all out on the floor. He'd dogear the stories he wanted to hear about and before bed, Bobby would choose one and tell us his version of it. His were always better than what was in the book.”

           Castiel smiled. “He sounds like a wonderful father.”

           Dean looked up at him, coming out of some kind of reverie. They looked at each other, just for a moment, eyes locked. The room seemed to get warmer.

           “He is,” Dean said, still holding Castiel’s gaze. “He's a great dad. And he deserves someone who's just as great as he is. So, y’know. Don't screw this up.”

           There was a knock on the door. It swung wide, revealing Meg and a tall, goofy looking guy. They both held paper bags. 

           “Your food is here, Clarence,” Meg said, jostling the bags. 

           “Clarence?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. 

           Castiel turned to him, and grumbled, “That's my angel name, apparently.”

           He stood and took Meg’s share from her arms. The delivery guy, wearing a shirt with  _ Garth  _ embroidered over his heart, moved into the office, laying the bags out on the desk. Castiel went to follow but Meg tapped his arm.

           “I'm leaving now,” she told him.

           “Alright,” Castiel said, turning to go back into the office. Meg touched his shoulder again, softly.

           “Unless you want me to stay late,” she said with a wink.

           Castiel tilted his head. “Why would I…”

           Then he noticed the wry twist of her mouth. Another taunting flirtation. He blinked.

           “Oh. Um,” Castiel stammered, turning to Dean and Garth. They both were watching the exchange, Garth with amusement, Dean with an unreadable expression. 

           “See you tomorrow, Clarence,” Meg said, finally putting an end to his misery.

           She left the room, headed down the hall in the dark. Garth joined Castiel in the doorway.

           “Dang, Castiel. Last time I delivered to you, ya had that handsome slice of cake hanging around your apartment. And now you have a honey at the office? Power to ya, amigo.”

           Castiel felt like choking. “That ‘handsome slice’ was Balthazar, Garth. He’s just a friend.”

           “Do all your friends hang around your place wearing nothing but towels?” Garth asked.

           A deep blush was starting to spread in Castiel’s face. He could feel even his chest and throat starting to heat with embarrassment. He shoved some cash into Garth’s hands and practically ushered him out the door.  _ This is why you don’t befriend the delivery guy,  _ he thought.

           He shut the door behind Garth and paused, keeping his back to Dean, just for a moment. It was tempting to open the door and walk out, never having to turn and face this man who just witnessed two moments of shame Castiel would remember forever in the span of five minutes. But he composed himself and turned back to Dean, walked back to his desk. Dean watched him the whole way. 

           He waited until Castiel was sitting. “I gotta ask,” Dean said.

           Castiel didn’t look at him, instead fiddling with the pen. “Hmm.” A small affirmation. Dean was silent until Castiel met his stare. He had an incredibly serious expression as he leaned in. 

           “ _ Do _ all of your friends have to wear towels at your place?”

           Despite the shame of Garth bringing up the Balthazar incident in front of a client, Castiel couldn’t help but laugh. He let himself enjoy the absurdity of it all. It felt like it had been forever since he’d laughed out loud at anything.

           “His water had been shut off,” Castiel explained, “Nobody else would let him use their shower. What was I supposed to do?”

           Dean inspected him. “Come on.”

           “What?”

           “You didn’t actually buy that, right?” Dean asked.

           “Buy what?” 

           Dean laughed. “Oh come on, Cas. The whole ‘oh I need to use your shower, let me just walk around in my towel so you can see how jacked I am’ routine.”

           Castiel raised a brow at the nickname.  _ Cas. _ Nobody had called him that before. He was tempted to say something but he was caught on the main point Dean was making. The idea was preposterous enough to make Castiel scoff. “Balthazar would never…” He paused. Actually, Balthazar probably would. But…  “He isn’t interested in me like that.”

           Now it was Dean’s turn to scoff. “Dude, did you see your little secretary trying to get a piece of you? Seems like a lot of people are interested in you like that. I wouldn’t even be shocked if that delivery guy had already tried something.”

           Castiel rubbed the back of his neck. None of his previous interviews had ever taken this sort of turn. He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. 

           “Regardless, I’m sorry for the interruption. They were supposed to have delivered this an hour ago,” Castiel said, nodding the paper bags. “Now, I have a few questions about Mr. Singer’s ideal w—” 

           “You  _ can  _ eat, you know,” Dean interrupted. 

           “I was aware of my ability to do that, yes.”

           “C’mon, you know what I mean. It’s cool if you wanna eat. If you’ve been waiting that long, you’re probably starving.”

           Dean wasn’t wrong; Castiel  _ was  _ starving. He’d forgotten about lunch and all that had been sustaining him was the PB&J he had made at five o’clock that morning. But he was a professional — or at least, he was going to act like one.

           “I can wait until our interview is over,” Castiel replied, flipping a page in his notebook.

           “Dude, I heard your stomach growling before I even walked through the door. Seriously, I appreciate the sentiment and all but you said this was gonna take a long time and I don’t want it to end with you passing out on the floor or some crap.”

           The scent of the food, sweet and tangy, emanated from the bags, causing Castiel’s stomach to cramp with hunger. His resolve to remain professional began to crumble. Dean was watching him closely. Finally, Dean sighed.

           “Look…” he said, like he was about to make a deal, “I haven’t had dinner yet either. Can you spare a little for me?”

           Castiel paused. He  _ was _ starving and if he wasn’t going to be the only one eating… “Of course.” 

           He reached into the bags and began to lay the food out on his desk, shoving aside the empty picture frame and the black orchid. There was a wide variety of food and he watched as Dean slowly removed the lids to the containers. Dean breathed the scent of the food in and closed his eyes like it was the greatest thing on Earth. 

           “I love Chinese food,” Dean said, grabbing the box of dumplings. “But why did you get so much of it?”

           It was peculiar how easily Dean had managed to shift the focus away from himself. Castiel was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions and yet he kept finding himself answering them instead. He finished chewing a bite of spring roll and shrugged.

           “I hate cooking but I require food. It’s easier to reheat leftovers than to make something myself,” Castiel said, taking another bite. While this wasn't his motivation for over-ordering that night, the statement was still true; Castiel despised cooking.

           “What?” Dean asked, eyes wide. “Cooking is the best. You’re totally in control. If the food sucks, sure, you take the blame. But when the food is good, you get all the glory. And it tastes better when you make it yourself, trust me.”

           “Perhaps for you, but I’m a terrible cook,” Castiel replied. 

           “You got me there. I’m an  _ amazing  _ cook. I could make the food you hate most in this world and you would love it.”

           Castiel snorted. “I hate pasta. There is no way you could make it in a way that I would enjoy it. Nobody is that good of a cook.”

           “Oh wanna bet? I’ll have to make it for you some time. My pasta will change your whole world.” Dean speared another dumpling and took a huge bite out of it. His cheek looked like a chipmunk’s as he chewed. Castiel smiled.

           “I’ll have to take you up on that.” 

           As they ate, Castiel refocused the conversation onto the interview questions. They eventually hammered out enough information about Bobby for Castiel to work with; the kind of women he liked, his interests, his dislikes, his previous dating patterns, socioeconomic standing, and all the rest. The profile they had developed for Dean was leaner; it contained his name, contact information, and a few other small bits about him that Castiel picked up over the course of their conversation. Castiel could tell that this man truly loved his family — he talked about them a lot, bringing up various stories and anecdotes about his father and siblings that had Castiel snorting laughing.

           The hour turned late and Dean stood by Castiel as he locked up the building, finishing up an anecdote about his sister.

           “—all over the keyboard. Anyway, long story short, Charlie hacked NORAD,” Dean said with a wry shrug, the body language of a proud older brother humblebragging.

           It was absolutely freezing as they walked to the parking lot together, hands in pockets. There was only one floodlight pouring light across the lot. It caught on the dark paint of an old muscle car. Dean stopped beside it.

           “Is this your car?” Castiel asked, running a hand over the ice-cold metal.

           Dean nodded. He kicked at a small pile of slush as Castiel circled the vehicle — a 1967 Chevy Impala. “This is beautiful,” Castiel finally said.

           This seemed to please Dean. He had a small smile on his mouth as he replied, “Thanks. She’s a real beauty, alright. Where’s your car at?”

           Castiel pointed to the only other car in the row, a few spaces down. Its blue body seemed exceptionally brighter under the glow of the floodlight. That was about all there was to say for it. Despite the charming color, it was obvious that it was a rundown hunk of junk.

           “Wow,” Dean said. “It’s… blue.”

           “I know it’s not the best car out there but it works. For the most part.”

           Dean furrowed his brows at this, waiting for further explanation. He had told Castiel about his job at the auto shop. He was a mechanic and he knew perhaps too much about cars. Castiel shrugged. 

           “It’s kind of a crapper. The heater just gave out on me a week ago.”

           “In this weather? How have you not turned into a Cas-sicle yet?”

           Castiel laughed. “Sheer luck.”

           Dean bobbed on his heels, trying to shake off the night chill. The stars were out overhead, though they were hard to identify from under the cascade of the floodlight. The sky was almost entirely black. 

           “You know, Bobby could probably fix that up for ya. You should bring it by the shop tomorrow, let him take a look. And then you could actually see for yourself the grouchy old guy you’re trying to set up,” Dean said, head tilted back, face to the stars.

           Castiel looked at Dean, the line of his throat, the furrow of his brow. “I will. Thank you, Dean. Goodnight.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           They went their separate ways to their cars. The creak of the Impala door echoed through the near-empty parking lot. Castiel nearly slipped on the ice and slush as he made his way to the Volvo.

           It was even colder on the inside, the glass frosted. He put the key in the ignition and tried to start the engine. It sputtered, then stopped. Castiel tried it again. Yet again, it rumbled for a moment and stopped.  _ Of course.  _ He dropped his head to the thin steering wheel. It was like ice against his forehead but he couldn’t bring himself to sit up. 

           Castiel weighed his options. There was no way his brother could pick him up. Gabriel was already asleep, he knew it. His brother had been strange about keeping a bedtime since grade school. Unless they were going out somewhere, Gabe was asleep by nine. It was almost ten. Most places that towed would be closed. 

           Outside the passenger’s window, there was a muffled sound. Castiel turned his head so he could identify it without sitting up. Dean waved at him through the window. He reached for the handle and tried to open the passenger side door. It stuck. Dean didn’t know about the goofy handle. He stood there, shaking at it in a sad attempt to pry the door open. Finally, Castiel reached over and opened it from the inside. 

           Dean leaned in, one hand on the roof. “Car troubles?”

           “Is it that obvious?” Castiel asked in a flat voice.

           “I can give you a ride back to your place, have a guy from the shop come tow this sucker in the morning.” 

           This time, Castiel didn’t hesitate at the offer. He simply got out of the car and followed Dean to the Impala. It was already on, with hot air circulating. Castiel slid into the passenger's seat. For such an old car, it was impeccably well-maintained, even if there was a slight rattle coming from one of the vents.

           Dean jumped in the driver’s seat and turned to Cas. “Where to?”

           Castiel told him to head downtown and they agreed that Castiel would tell him where to turn. They were silent only for a few minutes before Castiel brought up a question that had been bothering him since the day Sam and Dean showed up to the shop.

           “Dean.”

           “Yeah?” Dean didn’t look away from the road. 

           “Why are you doing this?” asked Castiel.

           Dean snorted. “Because your car sucks and I wasn’t going to let you freeze.”

           “That’s not what I mean. Why are you doing this for Mr. Singer?”

           A silence fell over the car. Streetlights and carlights flashed across Dean’s face as they drove. He was lit up in a golden glow every few seconds. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Perhaps Castiel had said the wrong thing. Cas settled to just look out the window when Dean spoke up.

           “Before Bobby adopted me and Sam, we were… It had just been us and our dad for the longest time. Then he drank a little too much and his liver just gave up.” Dean cleared his throat, staring at the road. “So Sammy and I got put into the system. Foster care or whatever. We went from place to place. And it was rough, you know? I was getting into fights all the time just to keep Sam safe, stealing food when they wouldn’t feed us. And then we got placed with Bobby.

           “I thought he was gonna be like the rest of them. Just in it for the check every month. So when he actually started…  _ parenting  _ us, I guess, it was a total shock. I mean, he actually seemed to care. And I still don’t know why. I mean, Sammy I get. My nerdy little brother wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s got these puppy dog eyes that get him outta anything. But me, I was just a punk kid with an attitude problem. Whatever it was, Bobby turned my life around. He pulled me out of the gutter. And when he decided to adopt us…. I dunno. I guess I’m just trying to pay him back.” 

           Dean still didn’t look at Cas. He worked the muscle in his jaw. They pulled to a stop at a red light. The color washed over Dean’s face as he shut his eyes, just for a second. Castiel put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned to look at him, searching Castiel’s face. The light turned green. 

           Castiel put his hand back into his lap. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this though? The dating?”

           “It’s for Bobby,” Dean replied. “Of course I am.”

           They drove in silence, save for Castiel indicating what turns they needed to take. The Impala eased up to the curb in front of the apartment complex and Dean put her in park. It was just Dean and Cas, sitting listening to the rumble of the engine. 

           “When’s our next meeting?” Dean asked, running his thumb over the steering wheel.

           “Probably after your first date, unless I find a good match for your father,” Castiel said.

           Dean nodded. “Awesome.”

           Another stretch of silence. Cars passed by outside but the inside of the Impala felt separate from the world. 

           “I think,” Castiel ventured, “I should give you my personal number. It would be best to handle your father’s case over a private number rather than the company’s.”

           Dean cracked a grin. “You’re right. That’s the smart thing to do.”

           They exchanged numbers, tapping the digits into each other’s phones. Finally there was nothing left do. Castiel took a deep breath. 

           “Thank you for the ride,” he said, opening the door on his side.

           “No problem. See you tomorrow at the shop,” Dean said.

           “Of course. Goodnight, Dean.” 

           “Night, Cas.”

           Castiel got out of the car and shut the door. He started to walk to the door of the building but he heard his name being called out. Dean rolled down the passenger’s side window and he looked expectantly at Cas. Castiel walked back over and leaned in.

           “Yes?”

           “Thanks. For helping us out,” Dean said.

           Castiel smiled at him, genuine and bright. “See you tomorrow, Dean.” 

           This time, Dean was the one smiling. He drove away with the window still rolled down. Castiel stood on the curb for a few minutes, watching the Impala disappear in the distance. The winter chill was creeping into his coat, but this time he didn’t feel the cold.


	5. Chapter 5

             Castiel woke to his phone vibrating with a quick succession of his text tone. The blue light was far too bright for the darkness of his room. The curtains were pulled shut and Castiel’s face had been buried in a pillow until the first text came in. He rolled over, sticking his arm out of his blanket pile to pull the phone close to his face. Three texts, all from Dean.

             The first text was a picture. It was Dean and another young man posing in front of Castiel’s car, white morning light washing out the image. The man beside Dean had a well-kempt beard and he was making the same face as Dean: a scrunched up,  _ what-the-heck-is-this _ expression as they pointed to the car. 

             The second text read,  _ Got ur car. Come meet Bobby or the driver’s side gets it,  _ followed by a key emoji. Castiel couldn’t believe Dean was threatening to key his car. It still made him grin into the blue light of his phone.

             The third text:  _ p.s. Pls tame ur bedhead before u get here. It’s distracting. _

 

             The taxi pulled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath its tires. Castiel passed some cash to the driver and got out. They had stopped on the road outside of the auto shop and salvage yard, which had its own winding gravel path to the house inside. Castiel stood next to the wrought iron sign reading SINGER AUTO AND SALVAGE. 

             The sun was finally out today, reflecting off the remaining snow and making the day look brighter. The sky was clear blue. Far different from the grey that Castiel had grown so used to. He walked down the gravel road to the main house, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face. On one side of him, piles of rusted cars of varying vintage were stacked as far back as he could tell. 

             The house, also bearing a sign with the Singer name, was as rundown as its surroundings. Its old blue paint was tinged gray and it was chipping off the siding in large portions. The house cast a long shadow over Cas as he approached and knocked on the door. He stood, looking back at the rusting cars and dirty snow. A red bird stood in a drift of snow, tilting its head at him. 

             The front door opened in a quick, violent motion. Castiel turned back to it and was met with a grizzly-looking man blocking the entrance with his body. It was the man from the photo Dean had texted him. The man's face was no longer scrunched up in mock aggression but there was still something rough about him. He gave Cas a once-over, noting the white button-up shirt, dark slacks, and the tan coat he wore.

             “We have enough bibles, thanks,” the man said in a thick Cajun drawl. He went to close the door. Castiel slammed his hand on the door, keeping the man from shutting it.

             “I'm not selling bibles, I'm here for Dean.” Castiel paused. “My car. Dean has my car.”

             The man eased his grip on the door. He let it swing open and leaned against the door jamb. “You're here to get your car from Dean?” 

             Castiel couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. “Yes, that is what I said.”

             The corner of the man's mouth twitched up beneath his beard. “You must be Castiel.” He drew out Cas’ name in a molasses-slow drag. 

             “Yes.”

             The man stood straighter. “Dean's out in the shop. I'll walk you over,” he said, moving past Castiel and shutting the door behind him.

             They walked around the house to an outdoor shop with a curved metal roof. It housed workbenches and tool kits, shiny and new in comparison to the dingy surroundings. Castiel's car sat in the shade of the metal roof, hood popped open. A toolbox sat open by the tire, shiny chrome tools visible inside. Dean was nowhere to be found.

             The man wrinkled his eyebrows. “They were just out here. Probably went in while I was talking to you.”

             “They?” Castiel asked.

             The man turned to him. “Your boy and Bobby. I'll go grab ‘em.”

             He walked to the backdoor of the house and disappeared inside. Castiel wandered over to his car and touched the raised hood. Castiel recalled the time he had spent with his father in the garage, pretending to work on the car to avoid Naomi. 

             Gabe, Cas and their father, Chuck, would sit on the poured concrete together in silence. Chuck would tap away on his laptop, glasses on his nose while Cas and Gabe played jenga with the wrenches. His father would occasionally snap at them with an exasperated huff, his eyes wild and his hair a tangled mess from where he run his hands through it in frustration. His father, the novelist. Never wanting to let his wife know that he didn't care about fixing up that old Mustang.

             Castiel had last seen his father at an independent bookstore, Hellhounds Lair. Chuck was doing a reading from his new book and Castiel listened to him from the supernatural thriller aisle. That was eight years ago.

             Now, Castiel looked into the heart of his car, the lines and pipes, all connecting and twisting and all of it bewildering.

             “Figured out what's wrong yet?”

             Cas turned to see Dean standing right behind him, looking over his shoulder at the engine. Dean smelled like motor oil and fabric softener. He seemed brighter, like being here in this shop was easier on him than being anywhere else. Cas looked back at the engine.

             “Um, no. I was just looking. I don't know anything about these things.”

             “Nothing? What, nobody ever showed you how to put oil in?” Dean cracked, grabbing a dirty red rag off the toolbox and wiping his hands.

             “No,” Castiel said, watching Dean scrub the oil from his hands. 

             Dean made that goofy face that reminded Castiel of a turtle. “Put that on the list of things for me to show you how to do.” 

             Castiel put his hands in his pockets, looked away from the rag Dean was pulling around his fingers. The man whom he had followed in stood near the back door to the house, talking to someone just inside.

             “That man,” Castiel said, nodding to him when Dean glanced up. “Does he work here?”

             “Who, Benny? Yeah, he's worked here for a few years now,” Dean said. He tucked the rag into his back pocket. 

             Benny walked their way, an older man by his side. The older man wore a tattered trucker cap and flannel with the sleeves rolled up. He pointed to Castiel.

             “You the owner of this car?” His voice was gruff and lined with a Southern roughness.

             Dean nodded for Castiel. “Not just the owner, Bobby. The  _ proud  _ owner, right Cas?” 

             He gave Dean an eye roll and faced Bobby. “Yes, that's my car.” 

             Bobby rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Well, son, you better think about buyin’ something else. That sucker ain’t gonna last.”

            This wasn't news to Castiel. He nodded, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. Benny seemed to be staring him down, standing just behind Bobby like a bodyguard or a bouncer, ready to throw Cas out as soon as possible. Dean cleared his throat.

             “So Bobby, this is Cas. The dude Sam and I were telling you about,” Dean said.

             This caught Castiel’s attention. When had Dean told Bobby about him? Cas tried to catch Dean's gaze, but he was focused on Bobby, who was watching Cas intently now. 

             “The one who flirted with your brother?” Bobby asked, disbelieving. 

             “No.” Dean and Cas said in unison. They exchanged a quick glance. “The other one,” Dean finished. 

             “Oh, the matchmaker,” Bobby said, rocking on his heels. He removed his cap and ran a hand over his head. “What're you doing out here in the middle of the day anyway? Shouldn't you be meddling in people's love lives or filing taxes?” 

             The last part was yet another jibe at Castiel’s clothes, apparently too formal for the auto shop.

             “I took the day off. Playing cupid was getting quite tiring,” Castiel replied, a bit of bite to his words. 

             Benny’s expression darkened further. His arms were crossed and terrifyingly large. Dean just looked to Cas, surprised confusion on his face. Bobby simply laughed and clapped Cas on the shoulder. 

             “I'll bet. C'mon, lemme show ya what's wrong with your loveboat,” Bobby said, directing Cas over to the driver’s side.

             Bobby spoke about all sorts of car engine stuff, pointing to valves and steel. Castiel lingered over his shoulder, making small affirming noises, but he wasn't paying attention. He was stuck watching Dean and Benny, standing just outside the curve of the metal roof, morning sunlight bathing them both. 

             Castiel couldn't help but notice how  _ close  _ they stood. There was hardly any personal space between them. Benny was talking, pointing out to the stacks of cars and shrugging while Dean listened, arms crossed. Castiel pretended not to notice when they both turned to look at him and Bobby, hovering over the engine. 

             He knew he shouldn't stare. They were obviously having some private conversation. Cas was about to look away, give them some privacy. Then Benny clapped a hand on Dean's neck. It was an affectionate, amiable motion. Except, they were so  _ close _ . Dean gave a small smile, patted Benny’s arm.

             “—should be up and running in the next day or so,” Bobby said, dusting his hands off.

             Castiel cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Great. What about the heating?”

             This made Benny give him a funny look. “Like I said, that'll be done today.”

             “Oh. Of course.”

             Bobby nodded. “Dean should be taking care of it later.”

             “Taking care of what?” Dean asked, walking back up, Benny in tow.

             “The heater in your boy’s car here,” Bobby replied, tapping the roof for emphasis. 

             Dean looked to Cas. “Oh, yeah. Piece of cake.”

             Castiel nodded. “Now if only you could fix the radiator in my apartment.” 

             He said it in faux lamentation, somewhat as a joke. In all honesty, he would probably have enough money saved by the end of the month to expend on that service. But Bobby seemed to prick his ears up at this.

             “He can fix it, ain't that right, Dean?” 

             They all looked to Dean, who seemed caught off guard. His eyes were kind of wide as he glanced at Cas. “Yeah.” 

             Bobby waved his hand, as if to say  _ get out of here. _ “Then go do it. You don't wanna leave him to freeze, do ya?” 

             Dean tilted his head like he was offended. “Of course not, Bobby. I just thought you wanted me to work today.”

             “I do. On that boy's radiator. Just make sure you get paid for it. Can't afford a free fix-up on his car  _ and  _ the radiator." Bobby said, grabbing a tool from the toolbox. 

_              Free fix-up? _ Castiel hadn't expected it to be free. Nor had he expected to have someone fix the heat in his apartment today. He wanted to protest it, say that he could pay for both, or that Dean didn't have to repair the radiator. But Bobby had sounded so final about it and Castiel's bank account was in no shape for him to disagree.

           Benny moved around Dean and leaned over the engine, leaving Dean and Cas standing together, both slightly stunned. They met each other's gaze and Dean just shrugged. Benny glanced at them over his shoulder. 

           “You heard Bobby,” he said, “Get outta here.” 

           Dean blinked at him but mumbled  _ alright _ and clapped Cas on the shoulder, guiding him back toward the house. The gravel crunched under their shoes, the soft clang of metal on metal sounding from behind them. They were almost to the backdoor when Benny called out Dean's name. 

           “Don't let him stiff you on that money,” Benny called.

           Maybe it was the sun glinting in his eye that made Dean look brighter as he smiled. He nodded to Benny and opened the door for Cas.

           “Trust me, I expect some kind of payment,” Dean said with a grin.

           Castiel stepped inside the house, eyes adjusting to the darkness of it. Dean followed and shut the door behind him. They stood in a kitchen, with worn dark cupboards and a scuffed tiled floor. 

           “Let me grab my keys and we'll hit the road,” Dean said, hitting Castiel’s shoulder amiably. 

          He walked through an archway leading into the next room. Cas moved after him, standing under the arch.

          The room looked to be a study. A large desk sat in front of a fireplace, books with delicate yellowing pages splayed across its surface, intermixing with stray scraps of paper. There were multiple rough-edged bookcases around the room, heavy with dusty-looking tomes. Even the window seat had books stacked on the padded cushion. 

           Dean gracefully navigated his way around the desk and grabbed his keys off the top of the fireplace. He held them up at Cas.

           “Bingo.” 

           Castiel stepped further into the room, turning to look at the bookcases on either side of the arch. “Are these the books you told me about?” 

           “The mythology books?” Dean asked, coming to stand beside Cas. “Yeah, these are some of ‘em. Bobby keeps a crapload in his room.”

           Cas made a soft noise of affirmation and continued to look about the room. There were all sorts of books to look at. He ran his hand along the desk. Dean was watching him, hands in his pockets.

           “Do you live here?” Castiel said at last. 

           “Nah, this is Bobby's place. Sam and I live a few minutes from here, just down the road.”

           “It's very beautiful out here. There isn't as much noise as in the city,” Cas said, returning to his place beside Dean.

          “I know, man. And you can actually see the stars at night without all that light blocking ‘em out.” 

           They started out of the house, Dean leading the way to the Impala.

           “I miss the stars,” Castiel said, pulling the passenger door open. “I used to spend the nights outside with my brother, watching the sky.”

           Dean smiled as they slammed their doors shut.

           “Sammy and I used to do the same thing,” Dean said, starting the car. “Still do. We'll sit out back in the field behind our place with a couple of beers and just watch the stars.”

          “That's wonderful,” Castiel said.

          They pulled out off the dirt road, back onto the pavement. Dean gripped the wheel and looked at Cas. 

           “You should come over sometime, if you miss it that much,” Dean said casually.

           “Really?” Cas asked.

           Dean turned back to the road. “Yeah, man. Bring that flirty brother of yours, a case of beer, we'll make it a party.” Then he leaned over and clicked in a cassette tape, humming along off-key for the rest of the ride.

 

            They pulled up to Castiel’s apartment complex, parking the Impala in the space Castiel’s car would normally go. Dean grabbed a beat-up toolbox out of the trunk and they went inside, taking the elevator up. 

            Dean leaned against the wall outside Castiel’s apartment while Cas shuffled through his keys.

            “It's no house in the country,” Cas warned, unlocking the door.

            “Hey man, as long as you've got beer and some tunes, who cares?” Dean said.

            They went inside,  Dean kicking the door shut behind them. The room had the same crisp bite to the air Castiel had felt outside. It nearly made his eyes water with cold.

            Dean shifted the toolbox to his other hand. “Dude, it’s freezing in here. How long have you been living like this?” 

            “Too long. We've worn a heinous amount of clothing to get through it,” Cas said, leading Dean through the living room to the radiator under the windowsill. 

            “Don't worry,” Dean said, “When I'm done here, you won't have to bother with all those clothes.”

            Cas felt that blush starting at his chest again. He could hear Gabe laughing at him in his mind, telling him to get his mind out of the gutter. Cas shifted uncomfortably as Dean knelt down, setting the toolbox on the floor.

            “Um. Yes. Thank you. For that.”

            Dean just looked up at him and smiled, before digging back into his toolbox. The blush was creeping up Cas’ neck, heating him up. He stripped his overcoat off and tossed it on a chair.

            “Would you like something to drink?” Cas asked.

             “Nah, I'm good. But do you think you could turn on some music? Helps me work,” Dean said, inspecting the radiator.

             Castiel rolled up his sleeves and went to grab the Bluetooth speaker Gabe had in his room. He was scrolling through his phone in search of a playlist as he walked back into the living room.

              “What would you like to—" Cas looked up and saw Dean, still knelt in front of the radiator, pulling his own coat off. He just wore a dark blue t-shirt but the fit of it was… distracting. The blush was never going to leave now. Dean glanced over at him, expectant. 

              “Um.” Castiel blinked, trying to remember what he had been saying. Dean smiled in amusement. Cas fiddled with the speaker. “What would you like to listen to?” 

            “Zeppelin four. Best album in the world,” Dean replied, tossing his coat on top of Castiel’s. “You're gonna love it.”

            Castiel turned on the album and sank into a chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. The music was rough old rock, a man singing about being lonely for a long time. Cas found himself bobbing his knee along to the irregular drums.

             Two songs went by as Dean worked quietly, humming along to the music. Then he dropped a tool back into the box, a clang that caused Cas to sit up and open his eyes quickly. 

             “Should be good to go,” Dean said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “We can wait for it to turn on, just to be sure.” 

             Cas nodded. He sat at the edge of his seat, hands on his knees. Dean got up and pulled a rag from his back pocket. It was that same motor-oil stained one from the salvage yard. He started to wipe the grease and dirt from his hands in rough motions, like he’d done it a million times before.

             Castiel stood, accidentally knocking into the coffee table, jolting the books and remotes on its surface. Dean watched him with a mix of confusion and amusement, still pulling that rag around his hands absently.

             “Um, would you…” The words rasped out unevenly. Cas cleared his throat, moved so the couch was in between him and Dean. “Would you like something to drink?”

             Dean gave that goofy turtle frown of his. “Yeah, why not?” 

             He tucked the rag into his back pocket and followed Cas into the kitchen. Dean leaned back against a counter, pressing his hands into the edges while Cas moved around the kitchen and tried to ignore the feel of Dean's gaze on him.

             “Thank you for doing this,” Cas said as he filled a glass with water. He handed it to Dean and pretended not to notice when their fingers brushed.

             “No problem,” Dean replied. “It's been awhile since I've worked on anything that doesn’t have wheels.” 

             Cas leaned against the edge of the sink while Dean took a sip of the water. Well,  _ sip _ was a polite way of putting it.  _ Ravenous gulping  _ was another, less polite way to describe how Dean drank, throat working in soft bobs.

             “Do you spend a lot of time at work?” Cas asked, looking at his shoes.

             Dean set his now empty glass on the counter and wiped his mouth. “I mean, yeah. It's the family business, you know?”

             This almost made Cas snort. He definitely knew about working in ‘the family business,’ though he would never be able to call Naomi’s company anything like that without gagging.

             “Yes, I know,” Cas said. “So if it’s a family business, does Sam work there as well?”

             Dean’s mouth quirked at the corner, a fond look passing over his face. “Nah. He did for awhile. Then he went off to Stanford and we hired Benny.”

             “Hm.” 

             “‘Hm,’ what?” Dean asked.

             Castiel shrugged. He shifted, mirroring Dean’s casual stance, pressing his hands into the counter’s edge. The sharpness of it against his palms helped him ease into a disaffected manner. He needed all the help he could get, trying to play it nonchalant.

             “Nothing.”

             Dean raised his brows, as if to say  _ come on, you’re not fooling me.  _

             “You and Benny seem pretty close,” Cas said finally.

             Dean shifted his weight, rubbing a hand over his neck. “You caught that?” Dean asked, his voice mildly strained. He grabbed his empty water glass and rolled it between his hands.

             “I don’t mean to pry, I was just—”

             “No, I know,” Dean said. He walked over next to Castiel and filled his water glass. He took a moment to drink, more deliberately this time. Like he was stalling. Cas waited. Finally Dean set the glass in the sink and gripped the edge, letting out a refreshed  _ aah  _ that sounded like a pop can being cracked open. He pressed his lips together.

             “Benny and I…” Dean started. He rolled his eyes. “We used to go out.”

             Cas pressed his palms harder into the counter’s edge. “Oh.” 

             Dean turned to look at Cas, that half-quirked smile back on his lips. “Yeah. I mean, we’re not  _ together,  _ not anymore. He’s just a friend. I guess Bobby told him about the break-up, the new one — which was amicable, by the way — and he just wanted to make sure I was doing okay. You know, friend stuff.”

             It was uncomfortable to hear Dean confirm Castiel’s suspicions, to actually say that there was history between him and Benny. But what was even more uncomfortable was the way Castiel’s chest had tightened when Dean had said it.

             “That’s good that you’re friends. Friendship is good.” 

             There was a pause.  _ Friendship is good? That’s the best you can come up with? _ Castiel chastised himself. He bit his lip, tried to think of something else to say.

             “Benny seems like an interesting man, though he doesn’t seem too fond of me,” Castiel said.

             This seemed to halt the growing awkwardness in its tracks. Dean let out a laugh and shook his head. “That’s just how he is. He’s a gruff guy.”

             “He thought I was selling bibles.”

             Dean laughed even louder at this. He turned to face Cas, leaning his hip against the edge of the sink. 

             “Can you blame him? You look like you just finished drinking the Kool-Aid and you’re out spreading the good word,” Dean said, gesturing to Castiel’s clothes.

             That was the third jab at his manner of dress in one day. Cas stood up, straightening his shoulders, and faced Dean with a huff. He tilted his head, squinted his eyes. “What would you suggest I do then?”

             There was a look of surprise on Dean’s face, perhaps shocked that Cas was taking his joke seriously. “Cas, I didn’t mean—”

             “Dean, I will not walk around having people think of me as some kind of holy tax accountant,” Cas said, combining the insults into one ridiculous image. “What should I do?” 

             Dean sighed and scanned Castiel, head to toe.

             “For one, you gotta roll up the sleeves,” Dean said, gesturing to Cas’ arms.

             Castiel drew his brows together. “That’s hardly professional, Dean.”

             Dean threw up his hands in mock defense. “Hey man, you asked me what to fix. I’m just tellin’ you, you’re not gonna pick up any chicks unless you show a little skin.”

             “Who says I want to pick up chicks?”

             Dean met Castiel’s gaze, scanned his face. “Um. Well, you’re not gonna get out of any speeding tickets, then. That better?” He reached for Castiel’s sleeve, hands warm around Cas’ wrist. Dean unbuttoned the cuff.

             “Dean, I know how to roll up a sleeve,” Cas tried, ignoring the feeling of Dean’s nails through the sleeve, gently scraping against his wrist as he began to roll the fabric up. Cas reached over to do it himself and Dean slapped his hand away.

             “You asked,” Dean paused, held up a finger. “Nay,  _ demanded _ , my help. Now hands off.”

             Castiel gave an eye roll and sighed, looking to the heavens like something up there could help him figure out what to do with this man. Dean was so close to him. Cas couldn’t help but notice the way Dean bit his lip with focus as he finished rolling Castiel’s sleeves to his elbows. 

             “There we go,” Dean said, giving a pleased grin. He looked Cas up and down once more, his attention catching at Cas’ throat. Cas glanced down, wondering if there was a stain on his tie, only to remember he hadn’t put on this morning. What was so curious about a plain button down?

             Dean reached up, knuckles brushing Castiel’s throat. Castiel’s shoulders tensed at the proximity, a quick flinch.

             “Easy, tiger,” Dean murmured.

             He began to unbutton Cas’ shirt, fingers moving deftly. 

             This close, he could see Dean so clearly — the freckles on his cheekbones, the stubble lining his jaw, the small scar on his chin, the chewed bits of his lips. But really he was stuck staring at Dean’s eyes. They were so  _ green _ , a light shade of summer grass. 

             The buttons were now open below Cas’ collarbones to mid-sternum, yet Dean reached for another one. Any further and Castiel’s chest, warmed with blush, would be fully exposed. He put a hand on Dean’s arm.

             “That’s probably enough,” Cas said.

             Dean blinked at Cas, then at his hands. He let go of the button.

             “Right,” he said softly. Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth.“I just, uh…” He breathed out a laugh. “My mind was somewhere else.”

             He looked at Cas again, taking in his work. That small, half-turn of his mouth was back, a soft look in his eyes. 

             “There you go.”

             Cas glanced down at himself. “I don’t look like a holy tax accountant now?”

             Dean gave a chuckle. “Trust me, when people see you now, holiness won’t even cross their minds. Probably gonna be getting the exact  _ opposite,  _ actually.” He gave Cas a slow once-over. “Which uh, means I did my job. So, you’re welcome.”

             “Thank you, Dean. Though I’m not sure I want people thinking unholy things about me.”  _ Most people, anyway. _

             The heat came on, causing the apartment to shift and settle. Dean raised his brows and headed back into the living room, Cas trailing behind. They stopped beside the radiator, Dean hovering a hand just above its surface.

             “Think about it this way,” Dean said, kneeling down to check his work. “Now you’ll actually get asked out on dates.”

             “I  _ do  _ get asked on dates, Dean.”

             “Uh-huh. Listen buddy, getting ogled ain't exactly the same thing as a date.”

             “ _ Dean. _ ”

             Cas raised a brow pointedly, arms crossed. Dean looked up at him and gave a dramatic eye roll that involved also rolling his head. It was goofy, watching this grown, confident man act so childishly belabored. Though he wanted to laugh, Cas wasn’t going to let his cross expression slip.

             “ _ Fine,”  _ Dean exhaled. “Who asks you on dates?”

             “Meg,” Cas said, straightening up.

             “Who?”

             “...my receptionist.”

             Dean finished inspecting the radiator, wiped his hands on his jeans, and put a hand out to Cas, who helped pull him up. Dean scrunched up his eyebrows and ran a thumb over his lips while considering this. He seemed to be searching his memory, trying to put the name to the face. The moment the lightbulb went off was clear when Dean cracked a cocky grin.

             “You mean your office sidepiece?”

             “She is not my—” Cas started in a huff. He stopped when he saw Dean still grinning, making fun of him. Cas regained his composure, tried to look dignified. “Meg is a very nice girl and she asked me out.”

             Dean gave a soft, huffing laugh. “Well, good on her. How did uh.... How’d the date go?”

             Cas looked away. If Dean had been poking fun at him before, he was about to have a field day. “There wasn’t one.”

             Cas waited, braced himself for the barking laughter to start, for a  _ what did I tell you,  _ some kind of joke at his expense. He focused on the dim sound of Led Zeppelin, still humming quietly in the background, and waited. Nothing. He turned his attention back to Dean. 

             Dean had crossed his arms and he was looking down, nodding to himself. There was a smudge of grease on his forehead, just above his eyebrow. There was no amusement in his expression when he met Castiel’s eyes. 

             “Maybe that’s for the best, you know?” Dean said. 

             “Why do you say that?”

             Dean shrugged. He turned away from Cas, nudged his toolbox with the toe of his boot. He leaned against the wall beside the radiator, careful not to displace any picture frames. There was a tautness to him, regardless of his relaxed posturing. Cas wondered what had caused the shift.

             “I dunno, man. She doesn’t really seem like your type, you know?” There was a roughness to the way Dean said it and he wouldn’t look at Cas.

             Cas stepped closer, hands in pockets. “And what is my type, Dean?”

             Dean looked up, straight at him now, a seriousness to his features that Cas hadn’t seen before. 

             “Not her.”

             Cas blinked.

             Dean cleared his throat, shook his head. “I mean, date whoever you want, you know. It’s up to you. It’s just that, Meg, uh, she seems a little too — well, you get what I mean. I just don’t want you to—”

             While Dean stammered over his words with awkward, breathy laughs, Cas walked closer until he stood directly in front of him. That got Dean to shut his mouth pretty quick.

             “Dean,” Cas said.

             Dean swallowed. “Yeah, Cas?”

             “You have something on your face.”

             This gave Dean pause but he bounced back immediately. “Yeah, I think that’s egg,” he cracked.

             Cas tilted his head. “Um. No. It’s grease. Why would you have egg on your face?”

             “I can think of a few reasons,” Dean muttered. He reached up, rubbing his fingers over his cheek. “There. Is it gone?”

             In fact, he had put more grease on his face, a long line of it across his cheekbone. Cas tried to rein in the goofy smile that had begun on his lips, putting on a more serious expression. His chance to get Dean back for the Kool-Aid joke had arrived. Cas furrowed his brows like he was intensely inspecting Dean for any more grease spots. 

             “You have some more right here,” Cas said, gesturing to his chin. 

             Dean scrubbed at the spot. “Good?”

             Cas had to laugh. Dean had rubbed a dark spot of it on, making it look like he had been chewing on a pen only to have it break between his teeth and spill ink on his chin. Dean was bewildered as Cas laughed at him.

             “What’s so funny there, Chuckles?” Dean asked.

             Cas nodded to a picture frame over Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned and looked at himself in the glass. From where he stood, Cas got a perfect view of the shocked face Dean made, his lips hanging in an O as he patted his cheek. He turned back to Cas.

             “Very cute.”

             “I thought so.” Cas couldn’t wipe the proud grin off his face.

             A phone went off, vibrating in a pocket. The ringtone was the shred of a guitar. Definitely not Castiel’s. He stepped away from Dean, went to lean against the arm of the couch while Dean answered his cellphone. After a few  _ uh-huh _ s and  _ yes sir _ s, Dean hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket. 

             “That was Bobby. Some dude just rolled up with a clogged catalytic converter and Bobby’s pretty booked. I gotta head back to the shop.”

             “Oh. Of course.”

             Dean ran a hand over the back of his head, ruffled his hair. “Yeah. Um. I’ll text you. About your car, I mean.”

             He clicked his toolbox shut and hauled it up, the metal hitting his thigh. Cas walked with him to the door, trying to think of what to say.

             “What about your payment? For fixing the radiator?”

             Dean cracked a smile. “I’ll get it later. See ya, Cas.”

             He walked down the hall, toolbox swinging. 

             After Dean got on the elevator, Cas shut the door. Led Zeppelin was still going over the speaker, playing into the near empty, newly-warm apartment. Cas looked down at the loose, grease-stained sleeve. The feeling of Dean’s hands on his arm came back, a shiver running down Cas’ spine. As he started to roll the sleeve up, he couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t feel nearly as good.


	6. Chapter 6

          Castiel had his Volvo back by Monday. He didn’t know what sort of magic Bobby had worked on it but the car drove more smoothly, no sputtering noises to be heard, no smoke to be seen. He even made it to work early without babying the engine at twenty-five miles an hour. Castiel had only just sunk into his desk chair when Naomi opened his door.

          Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, jaw tight. She went straight to the window and took a moment, staring out. In Castiel’s mind, he could hear Gabe cracking a Gatsby joke.

          “You've been underperforming,” Naomi said. Her words had a clipped quality, her teeth clacking together.

          “Excuse me?”

          Naomi turned. “None of your clients have been on a single date.”

          “I've only been here for a few weeks.” Castiel tried to keep his voice even. This seemed to be coming out of nowhere. “I've had more paperwork than—”

          “No excuses, Castiel. Set up a client by the end of the week or your pay will be docked.”

          There it was. He could understand this as a professional request, boss to worker, except that it didn't feel like that. It felt like he was a highschooler again, Naomi giving one of her non-options in her holier-than-thou tone. It felt personal. Then Castiel realized where this was coming from.

          “Is this about Gabe?”

          Naomi flinched, like he’d dug into the chink in her armor. She came to stand in front of him, pressing her fingertips to the desktop. There was a simmering rage in her. It singed Castiel where he sat.

          “This is about you not doing your job. Don’t make me tell you again.”

          She left without another word, without letting Castiel reply. That was a small blessing; if he’d been able to talk back, Cas would have brought up Uriel — another matchmaker — and how he hadn’t set up anyone in his six months of working there. Things would have gotten ugly.

          Cas scrolled through his database, chin in hand. He looked over his few clients, trying to gauge who would be easiest to set up. His attention caught on Dean’s name. It seemed somewhat cruel to send Dean out on a date when he’d just barely gotten out of a relationship — a long one at that. Even if Dean had told him multiple times that it was okay, that he knew what he had signed up for, Cas felt uncomfortable about it. But Cas also knew that Dean was willing to take one for the team and help save Cas at the last minute. Besides, Dean seemed like the kind of guy he could match with anyone.

          Castiel suddenly became pickier with his clients; if he was going to make Dean do this, Cas was going to make it easy on him by choosing someone decent. His four remaining clients were making that difficult.

          Victor Henriksen seemed too rough around the edges, bitter from his days as an FBI agent. Rowena MacLeod was flirty and terrifying and far too old (“ _experienced,”_ Rowena had called herself) for Dean. Then there was Becky Rosen. She had an overzealous energy that, when paired with her wild eyes and breathy voice, made Cas concerned that he was about to have his bones jumped at any minute. Cas couldn’t do that to Dean.

          The only person left was Lisa Braden. She was the best option by far; charming, funny, and of course quite beautiful. During her entrance interview, Lisa had explained that she had experienced a recent heartbreak which made her realize that she wanted something more serious than her previous relationship. She was looking for someone who was ready for a full commitment, someone she could talk to. Cas couldn’t speak for Dean on the commitment front but he did know that their mutual heartbreaks could give them something to talk about.

          Cas sent a message to Lisa and Dean, something along the lines of _you’re going on a date now tell me when you’re available this week._ He served as the go-between, aligning their calendars until they agreed that the following evening would work for the best for both of them. Cas called in a dinner reservation and put it under his own name. Company policy dictated they make the first date anonymous to keep people from web-stalking each other and Cas wasn’t in any position to ignore any of Naomi’s divine mandates.

          Dean texted, _Tell her I’ll be the guy in the AC DC shirt with the great_ , followed by a peach emoji and a winky face. Lisa’s reply was free of any inappropriate emoji use; _Haha my ex used to love that band. I’ll be in a pink floral dress. Tell him I’m excited!_ Cas relayed the information to Dean, attaching a message of his own: _thank you for saving my (peach emoji)_.

          It was several minutes until Dean replied. Cas hoped it was due to the shock of seeing an emoji in one of Cas’ texts. _No problem buddy. Can’t deprive the world of that_ (peach emoji) _._

          

* * *

 

          The next evening found Cas at home with Gabe, bickering over what to watch on Netflix. Gabe held his hands aloft like scales.

          “Another episode of _Queer Eye?_ Or some rando documentary about monkeys and lipstick?” His hand weighed heavy on the _Queer Eye_ side. “No contest, bro.”

          “It is not some ‘rando documentary.’ It’s about cosmetic testing on animals. Monkeys are so clever and—”

          “—sensible about eating bananas with the skins, I know, I know.” Gabe rolled his eyes and queued up the documentary.

          Five minutes in, Castiel’s phone, which sat on the couch between them, lit up and vibrated. Gabe grabbed it before Cas even registered that the phone was his.

          “Ooh, hot stuff’s big bro?” Gabe waggled the screen at Cas, offering a glimpse of Dean’s name and the selfie he’d taken with Benny. Cas made a grab for the phone but Gabe brought it close to his chest and swiped the answer button.

          “Hola, Deano. How important is lipstick to you?”

          Cas said Gabe’s name sharply, elbowing his brother. Satisfied to have caused a little chaos, Gabe released his grip on the phone and let Cas catch it.

          “Dean. Hello.”

          “Hey Cas. Do I even wanna know what that was about?”

          Castiel frowned at his brother. “No, you probably don’t.”

          He got up and went to his room, Gabe chanting _Queer Eye_ as he left. Cas shut the door behind him and went to perch on his unmade bed.

          “How are you, Dean?”

          “Good. Great, actually. I just dropped Lisa back at her place.”

          Cas had almost forgotten about the date. Almost. “Oh. How was it?”

          “It was great, yeah.” There was a little laughing huff over the line. “So, uh, you know how I was getting drunk the night we met ‘cause of a break up?”

          “I don’t think I could forget it, Dean.”

          Another laugh. “Great. Well, that was her.”

          “...what?”

          “Yeah, Lisa? She’s the chick who sent me on that particular bender.”

          The dots seemed to connect at lightning speed, each one making Castiel feel more and more like a total and complete idiot. He fell back onto his bed, hand on his face.

          “Dean, I’m so sorry. I should have known.”

          “Hey, it’s all good, man. You couldn’t have known.”

          “All the same. I promise you won’t have to go on another date with her, I’ll make sure of it,” Cas said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

          Dean gave another easy chuckle. “I appreciate the offer, man, but it actually went pretty well. We're gonna meet up again this weekend.”

          Cas felt his stomach drop. “Oh?”

          “Yeah, I mean, when she saw that I was the dude she was supposed to meet up with she just about bolted. But then we got to talking and, well, you know.”

          “Yes, I know.” The words came out in a flat rasp.

          Dean paused. “You okay there, Cas?”

          “Of course.” Cas put his arm over his eyes, shielding out the ceiling light against an oncoming headache. He could hear Dean start to talk again but he cut him off. “I have to go now, Dean.”

          “Oh. Uh, bye, Cas. I'll talk to you later.”

          “Goodbye.”

          Cas clicked the red button and tossed his phone elsewhere on his bed. His chest felt tight, like someone had shoved a hand between the intercostal spaces of his ribs and was squeezing whatever they could find.

          From a logical perspective, Cas knew he should have been happy for Dean. He was getting back together with his ex-girlfriend, a woman whom he clearly had deep feelings for. There was no reason why Cas felt a dark sludge of emotion in his guts. Yet as he thought about Lisa and Dean in the orange glow of a restaurant, holding hands across the table, his stomach twisted.

          “Cassie, you gotta check this out! This guy looks just like you!” Gabe called from the living room.

          If Cas were Gabe, there would be one way to burn out this toxic waste feeling. And right now, Gabe’s way sounded perfect. Cas shoved off the bed and walked back to the living room.

          Gabe was pointing at the screen, staring into the blue glow. He turned to Cas.

          “Am I right or am I— whoa you okay there little bro?”

          “We're going out.” Cas said. “And this time, you're driving.”

          He tossed Gabe the keys.

* * *

 

          Cas woke up on the bathroom floor with bleary eyes and a bitter-flavored mouth. His skull felt like it was about to shatter.

          Last night was a blur in Castiel’s memory, one of chilled gin and iced tea, alcohol burning his throat, Gabe slapping him on the back after another round of shots. Luckily, the memory of spewing bile into the toilet was absent, though Cas could still feel the aftershocks of it in his throat.

Castiel pulled himself up by the counter’s edge, hand nearly displacing the tall glass of water there. There were two white pills beside the glass, settled on a water-ringed note from Gabe. _Tried waking you up. Guessing you’re 2 smashed 2 function. Going out with Ralph and Balth after work. Don’t wait up. Xoxo_ , _G_.

          The phrase “too smashed to function” was one Castiel had never thought would be applied to himself after college. He also thought he would be over rowdy nights that ended up in emptying his guts, done with trying to wash the scent of gin out of his skin the next morning. Yet now he stood under the spray of the shower, scrubbing his hands over the scruff of his face and trying to avoid the thoughts that led him to the bottom of a bottle.

          He showed up to work looking rough, hair slightly damp and sticking up in every direction. His shirt was rumpled, collar open.

          Meg gave a slow clap when she saw him, kicking her boots up on her desk, leaning back in her chair.

          “Congrats, Clarence. You finally got laid.” She smirked, eyeing his disheveled clothing.

          He was too hungover to try and think of a polite way out of this one, a way in which he wouldn’t sound like someone who hadn’t had sex recently.

          “No, I didn't,” Castiel muttered.

          “No? Huh. How about we change that?”

          “Excuse me?”

          Meg dropped her feet, leaned forward. Though she sat beneath Castiel, it felt like she was talking down to him. “What do ya say, _Castiel?_ You, me, dinner, hand-holding? We can moon at each other over the appetizers.”

          She wore that cocky, taunting expression. It seemed specifically reserved for situations where she was torturing Castiel.

          He knew that Meg was expecting him to blush, bump into the wall on his way to his office. That was the precedent. And yet, something in Cas went quiet, silencing the urge to stumble out of this situation. Floral dresses and black cars with steamed windows flashed in Castiel’s mind.

          “Yes,” Castiel said.

          The bright gleam to Meg’s eyes faded, witty comment withering in her mouth. “What was that, Clarence?”

          “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you. Is Friday evening alright?”

          Meg blinked at him. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” She smirked again, surprise gone. “I know just the place. It’s got a mechanical bull.”

          Cas didn’t want to know why she winked at him about that. He nodded, exchanged numbers with her, wondering if she was the type to use emojis.


	7. Chapter 7

          Gabe being out with his friends was somewhat of a blessing; it meant he wasn’t there to pester Castiel about his choice of entertainment (a documentary on bees that he’d seen twice already) or his plans for dinner (a microwave meal from aisle three of a Gas’n’Sip).

          Meg had texted him a few times, sending him the address for their date and a request that he refrain from wearing a tie ( _ its a  _ **_date_ ** _ , angel boi. not a wedding).  _ He was grateful she didn’t ask why he suddenly agreed to go out after avoiding her earlier advances. 

          Cas laid on the couch dozing, the documentary white noise in the background. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when his cell phone rang, vibrating on the floor. Eyes still closed, Castiel slung his arm off the couch and hauled it up to his ear, answering without screening the call.

          “Hello.”

          “Hey, Cas.”

          Castiel opened his eyes. “Dean.”

          “So maybe I’m a little crazy but you kinda sounded pissed at me the other day.”

          “Oh, no, I wasn’t—”

          “Hey, man, it’s all good. I’m not cryin’ into my ice cream over it or anything. But, uh, yeah. I thought I’d make it up to ya.”

          “Make what up to me?”

          “Whatever I did to make you pissed at me, Cas. Look, what I’m tryin’ to say is I have all the crap to make pasta and you should… you know. Come over. Eat pasta. Have your world rocked by my awesome pasta-making skills.”

          “I don’t know, Dean.”

          “Come on, Cas. If you don’t, I’m gonna be the one gettin’ pissed at you and you don’t have the mad cooking skills to make up for it.”

          Cas chewed on his lower lip. His microwave meal was still in its box. He  _ supposed  _ he could have it some other night.

          “Alright. I’m on my way.”

          “Awesome. I’ll text ya the address. Oh, and Cas?”

          “Yes, Dean?”

          “Don’t wear a tie. I’m not runnin’ a car dealership here.”

* * *

 

          The sun was sinking below the horizon when Cas parked in front of Dean’s house. It was indeed just down the road from Bobby’s place. The house was a silhouette against the dusty pink sky as Castiel got out of his car. 

          The Winchester house was charming, burnished wood posts holding up the wraparound porch, rose bushes planted by the stairs. Warm light spilled from the windows. Behind it, an open snowy field stretched on for miles, dirt tire tracks winding out into oblivion.

          “Howdy.”

          Dean was leaning in the doorway like he’d been waiting while Cas looked around. 

          “Hello, Dean. I hope it’s okay to have parked here.” He gestured to the spot, just a patch of grass beside the dirt road that led to the place. 

          “You’re all good, man. Ain’t exactly a parking lot waiting for ya. Come on in.”

          Cas went inside, lingering in the entryway while Dean shut the door. He expected Dean to lead the way to the ‘world-changing’ pasta but Dean leaned against the door and looked at him.

          “What?”

          “Well, you look like crap.”

          Cas didn’t have to look down to know how wrinkled his clothes were, buttons half-done up and the sleeves rolled the elbows. But he’d made an effort to soothe his messy hair, flattening it into submission.

          Cas huffed. “A hangover will do that to a person.”

          Dean whistled appreciatively. “Mr. Novak finally went wild, huh? Should I check MTV for the footage? You didn’t do any wet t-shirt contests, didja?”

          “No, Dean, I didn’t participate in any contests.”

          “Good, ‘cause that would’ve been unfair to everyone else. Probably think it was rigged for ya.”

          Castiel didn’t entirely follow but he nodded along.

          “Did someone say  _ wet t-shirt contest _ ?”

          Dean and Castiel looked up to see Sam and a pretty blonde girl leaning over the banister railing, both beaming. Sam elbowed the girl.

          “That would have been Dean,” Sam said. “I’m guessing Cas isn’t exactly into  _ Girls Gone Wild _ .”

          He and the girl came down the stairs holding hands. Sam slapped Cas on the shoulder with his available palm.

          “Hey, Cas. This is my girlfriend, Jessica.” He turned to Jess. “And Jess, this is Cas. He’s our—”

          “Matchmaker!” Jess grinned. She gave Cas a quick hug. “I’ve heard so much about you. Dean’s only mentioned you about a million times.”

          Dean blushed. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Enough with the pleasantries. Get outta here, lovebirds.”

          “Alright, fine. Save us some pasta,” Sam said.

          “You’re leaving?” Cas asked.

          Sam slung an arm around Jessica’s shoulders, swayed with her. “Yeah. It’s date night. You guys have fun though.”

          “Don’t get too  _ wild, _ ” Jess said, wiggling her eyebrows. 

          Dean pointed at her. “We make no promises. Now go on, git.”

          He steered the pair out the door, flapping his arms behind them like he was directing traffic. Sam and Jess’ laughter was audible even through the closed door. Dean knocked his fist against it and turned back to Cas, rolling his eyes.

          “My dork brother and his dork girlfriend, ladies and gentlemen.”

          Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder and led him to the kitchen. 

          The room had a rustic feel to it. The wood for the island counter, the spice shelves, even the barstools looked reclaimed. Steam rose from a copper pot, billowing into the metal hood above the stove. Candles flickered on the counter.

          Dean left Cas gawking while he went to the stove.

          “Sorry about that. I tried to get ‘em to leave before you got here but they kept giggling and braiding each other’s hair,” Dean said as he stirred.

          “It’s alright. It was nice to see Sam,” Cas said. He moved into the room, leaning his hip against the island. “He seems happy.”

          Dean nodded, an affectionate smirk to his mouth. “He is. He’s head over heels for that girl.” He tapped the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot and set it on the counter, turned back to face Cas. “I swear, he makes heart eyes at her every time she walks in a room. It’s sickening — in a sweet way.”

          Cas bobbed his head. He ran his hand along the surface of the island, fingers tracing the whorls in the grain. “That is very sweet. Sam does seem quite fond of her.”

          He glanced up to see Dean watching him. 

          “I know I look like ‘crap,’ Dean. You’ve already told me.”

          “It’s not that. You look weird.”

          Cas let out a laugh. “Weird and like crap. That’s good to know.”

          “No, I mean. You don’t look like yourself.” Dean gestured to his hair. “What’s going on up here?”

          Cas touched his hair, suddenly self-conscious. “What do you mean?”

          “You don’t have that  _ just got laid  _ look goin’ on anymore. Now you look like a tax accountant who doesn’t know how to do laundry.”

          “I thought you said I should tame it.”

          Dean bit his lower lip, eyes flicking between Castiel’s hair and face. “Nah, man. Bedhead works on you.”

          Cas didn’t know what to say to that. Dean spent another moment examining Castiel’s hair before he sighed and threw his hands up.

          “I can’t let you walk around like this, buddy.”

          Dean moved toward Cas, closing the space between them. Cas stayed pressed against the counter as Dean got into his space. 

          “You’re going to fix it for me?” Cas asked, throat tight.

          “What’re friends for?” 

          Cas held his breath as Dean brought his hands to Cas’ hair. He carded his fingers through it in slow, lazy motions. Dean’s hands were so warm and gentle and it wasn’t Cas’ fault if he leaned into the touch, closed his eyes. Dean ruffled the hair above Cas’ ears and let his hands drift down to cup Cas’ neck, fingers grazing the delicate hair at his nape. Who could blame him for the quiet noise that escaped his throat? 

          Cas opened his eyes, wide with embarrassment. He expected Dean to be backing away, disgust on his face. Instead, he was met with that quiet smile. Dean’s eyes looked darker now, making their way from Castiel’s eyes to his mouth and back. Cas’ heart was thudding hard against his ribs.

          “There you go. Now you’ve got that classic Cas bedhead,” Dean murmured.

          “It isn't distracting?”

          “Oh, it’s distracting alright.”

          A sharp hiss sounded over Dean’s shoulder. They both turned to look, Dean’s hand falling onto Castiel’s shoulder. The water on the stove had boiled over. Dean cursed under his breath and went to turn off the heat. It gave Cas a minute to catch his breath and get his blush under control. A minute to stop thinking about how soft Dean’s mouth looked. 

          “Ain’t this a great start to the night?” Dean sighed, dropping a hand towel over the water on the floor.

          “It’s not all bad,” Cas said. 

          The frazzled look left Dean’s face at that, replaced with a little smile.

          “Yeah, well.” 

          Dean reached into a cupboard and pulled out a cutting board. He wagged it at Cas. “Time to sing for your supper.”

          “You’re making me cook?”

          “That’s right, hotshot. Be the Fieri to my Ramsey,” Dean said, setting an onion and a knife beside the cutting board. 

          “What’s a Fieri?” Cas asked as he grabbed the knife. 

          Dean laughed that full laugh, head thrown back. “So much to learn. Looks like we found our after-dinner activity. An educational one too. Sammy’d be so proud.”

          “And what would that activity would be?”

          “A Guy Fieri binge. We’ll start with  _ Big Bite  _ and work our way to  _ Grocery Games _ . Cancel any other plans you might have had, you’re mine and Guy’s for the weekend.”

          Dean stood beside Cas, chopping up tomatoes while Cas diced the onions, their elbows occasionally knocking. Dean carried on about Guy Fieri and Bobby Flay, giving Cas a compare and contrast of cringe. Cas enjoyed the animated way Dean talked, the enthusiasm he had for such goofy things. 

          “Alright, noodles should be good to go. Gotta taste ‘em first but I’m sure they’ll take ya straight to Flavortown,” Dean said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

          He carried the pot over to the counter and set it in front of Cas.

          “I don’t know, Dean. I told you pasta is my least favorite food.  _ Flavortown  _ might be further than you think.” 

          “And I told you that my pasta was gonna change that. Now open up,” Dean said, grabbing a noodle. Cas opened his mouth without thinking, let Dean tilt his head back with a calloused hand on his chin, let Dean drop it onto his tongue.

          “There ya go,” Dean said, grinning with pride.

          Cas chewed, considered. He could feel Dean waiting for the verdict as he swallowed.

          “That’s what was supposed to change my world?” Cas asked.

          Dean rolled his eyes, waved Castiel off. “Whatever, dude. We still have to add sauce. The sauce is what makes it rockin’. You’ll see. Then you’ll have to stop being a hater.”

          Cas laughed. “Hater?”

          “I stand by that.”

          Dean pulled a bowl from the retro-looking fridge, put it in the microwave. “Now we wait.”

          “You seem to be very into cooking,” Cas said, perching on a barstool.

          “You're not wrong.” 

          “Did you ever consider making it a career?”

          “Nah, it‘s more of a hobby. I mean, sure, when I was a kid making thirty different kinds of ramen for Sam, I thought, y’know, one day I could  _ possibly  _ run a restaurant or whatever. But there ain’t exactly a market for ramen and mushroom soup.”

          “I would buy that.”

          “Yeah right.” Dean snorted.

          “I would. I’d prefer it to what you’re making right now.”

          The microwave beeped and Dean pulled the bowl out. He pointed to Cas with his free hand.

          “You'll be singing a different tune once you try it.” Dean poured the now-warm sauce over the noodles and grinned. “Now we're cookin’.”

          “With gas,” Cas finished.

          “What?” 

          “The phrase is ‘Now we're cooking with gas.’” 

          “Ooh I love it when you educate me, college boy,” Dean said absently, scraping the onions and tomatoes into the mix. He stirred up the mixture, scooped a bit onto the wooden spoon, and raised it. “Prepare to be amazed.”

          Cas rolled his eyes again, a goofy grin on his face. He reached for the spoon but Dean slapped his hand away. 

          “House rules, buddy. The chef is the only one qualified to deal out samples.”

          “I cooked too, you know.”

          “You didn't cook; you chopped. There's a difference.”

          Dean held his hand beneath the spoon to keep sauce off the counter as Cas leaned in and tried the sauce. It was sweet, run through with basil and it had a slight kick to it. Cas groaned.

          “Okay, you win.” Cas sighed, rubbing a thumb over his lip to catch any lingering sauce. “My world has just been profoundly altered. What's in that?”

          Dean grinned, pleased with himself. “That's classified. All that matters is you've been converted.” 

          “Entirely.” 

          They ate side by side at the island, knees pressed together. Cas helped Dean with the dishes, drying the plates off while Dean rinsed. Then they were on the couch in the living room, Dean pulling up the Fieri fest he'd promised while Cas opened the beers.

          Dean laughed at Castiel's face when Guy Fieri first appeared on screen. 

          “This is the chef you compared me to earlier?” Cas asked in horror.

          “Actually…”

          “Actually what, Dean?”

          “He's not a chef.”

          Cas wiped his hands down his face. “You mean he doesn't even  _ cook?  _ What  _ does  _ he do?”

          Dean waved his hands vaguely at the screen, beer sloshing. “He, you know, guides us through Flavortown.”

          “If that man is in Flavortown, I never want to go.”

          “What? Cas, the guy is a freaking legend. Don't disrespect.”

          “He looks like he has grated cheese for hair.”

          Dean pressed a hand to his chest like he was personally offended. “First Lisa bails on me, then you insult my one true hero? Break out the tissues.”

          Cas wrinkled his brows. “Lisa bailed on you?”

          Dean took another swig of beer and turned to him, face painted blue in the tv light. “Huh? Oh yeah, she was supposed to come hang out tonight but something came up with her son, Ben. Babysitter issues or somethin’.”

          Castiel had forgotten about Lisa. He'd let himself get comfortable, let his chest warm when Dean looked at him. But he wasn't even supposed to be here. Cas rolled his beer bottle between his palms. 

          “Oh. I’m sorry she couldn't come over.”

          “Hey, man. Don't sweat it. It worked out for the best.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder, gave that smile where his tongue stuck between his teeth. 

          Cas finished off his beer and excused himself to grab another. He stood at the kitchen sink, dampening his face. He'd been an idiot to come here. An idiot to think that maybe Dean wanted… Cas shook the thought from his head. Dean was just being nice. He was being a  _ friend. _

          He sunk back down next to Dean, who'd just set his own empty on the coffee table. Dean scooted closer and slapped a hand on Cas’ knee.

          “How good does that look?” Dean said, pointing to the screen. He sunk back into the couch, practically leaning against Castiel's shoulder. Cas tensed up, took a long pull of his beer. 

          Another beer later and the alcohol hit him, warmth spreading through his extremities. Dean was still so close, face so close every time he turned to make a comment in Cas’ ear, close every time Dean made unholy groans about how good the tv food looked.

          The tv was like white noise, a steady sound that kept making Cas’ eyes drift shut. Dean’s body was giving off so much heat and Cas couldn’t help but slump against Dean, lay his head on Dean’s shoulder.

          “You okay there, buddy?”

          Cas made a quiet noise in affirmation.

          Dean took the bottle from his hand, put an arm around his shoulders.  _ So warm. _

          “You smell good,” Cas murmured into Dean’s shirt.

          “I what?”

          “You smell clean,  _ Dean _ .” Cas chuckled at the dumb rhyme. “And like cologne. Are you wearing cologne?”

          Dean patted his arm, exhaled a soft laugh. “You’re drunk. There’s no way I’m letting you drive like this, man.”

          “They test cologne on rabbits, Dean.”

          “Cas?”

          “Yes, Dean?”

          “Go to sleep.”

          Alarm bells went off in Cas’ head.  _ He has a girlfriend, do not stay. Abort, abort. _ But the volume of that panic was dampened by alcohol and the way Dean’s arm felt around him. Cas shut his eyes, just for a minute. Then he was going to call a taxi.  _ Just for a minute. _

* * *

 

          “Cas. Hey buddy, rise and shine.”

          There was a hand on Cas’ shoulder and he jolted up, knocking heads with Dean. 

          “Son of a—” Dean touched a hand to his forehead like there might be blood. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”

          Cas’ clutched his own head, aching with the collision and a fresh hangover. The living room was dark, the tv off. Cas was covered with a heavy crocheted blanket. His shoes were discarded on the floor beside the couch. 

          “Sorry,” Cas said, voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

          “Five-thirty. I wasn’t sure what time you need to be at work so I figured I’d get you up at my normal time.” 

          He’d fallen asleep on Dean’s shoulder. Of course he had. 

          “Thank you.”

          Dean nodded. “No problem. So uh, I’m makin’ pancakes and Sammy has this locally-sourced orange juice in the fridge that I’m sure you’ll love.”

          “You want me to stay for breakfast?”  
          “Only if you want to.”

          “I don’t want to be a continued intrusion.”

          Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re not putting me out here, Cas. I’m  _ asking  _ you to stay. Read the room.”

          Cas looked down at his wrinkled clothes. “I need to shower, Dean.”

          Dean grinned. “We can take care of that.”

          He followed Dean to his room, let Dean hand him a stack of clothes, and got ushered to the bathroom. There was something achingly intimate about using Dean’s body wash, his conditioner. There was something even more intimate about wearing his clothes, the Metallica shirt clinging close to his chest. He returned to the kitchen with damp hair and bare feet. 

          Dean was cooking pancakes, still in his pajamas, hair ruffled. He hummed to himself as he poured more batter into the pan.

          “Hey, look at you. You clean up good,” Dean said.

          “Thank you. Sorry about last night,” Cas said as he sat down.

          Dean pointed his batter-caked spatula at Cas. “No apologizing. I had a good time.”

          “Me too.”

          “Good. So then stop sayin’ you’re sorry and be glad I’m making you my special chocolate chip pancakes. Family recipe. It’s killer.”

          “They smell great,” Cas said, rubbing at his eyes. The hangover was really kicking him in the skull. 

          “Hey, there’s some aspirin for ya over there,” Dean said, jutting his chin toward the kitchen table. Cas thanked him again and went to take the pills.

          “Did Sam and Jessica say anything when they saw me on the couch?” Cas asked. “I'd assume being passed-out drunk falls under the umbrella of ‘going wild.’”

          Dean shrugged. “Nah. I had ‘em—" He cleared his throat. “They, uh, stayed at Jessica's place last night.”

          Castiel smiled around his water glass. “Thank heaven for small miracles.” 

          “Right? Sam woulda had a field day. Hey, grab some plates outta that cupboard there, will ya?” 

          Dean kept talking as Cas brought the plates over, as he dished up pancakes and strips of bacon.

          “But yeah, there was one time Sam saw me and Lisa holding hands and he wouldn't let that go for a week. Can't imagine what he'd say if he walked in on you and me cuddling like chicks.” Dean tilted his head. “Actually, he'd probably say somethin’ like that.”

          Castiel’s stomach dropped. Everything after  _ Lisa _ seemed blurred, spoken underwater. Dean was smiling at him and he looked relaxed, loose, and Cas’ heart went wild in his chest when it realized that  _ this _ ,  _ being here, _ being here with Dean, wasn't his. 

          “You and Lisa make a good couple,” Cas said. He focused on pouring syrup on his pancakes so he didn't have to look at Dean.

          “Uh, yeah, we did, I guess. She's one of my best friends, you know?”

          Cas nodded. “So when is the next date?”

          Dean pressed his hands into the counter and watched Cas chew. He shrugged. “I don't know. When do you want it to be?” 

          Cas shrugged. “That's up to you.” 

          “Okaaay. What are you doing tomorrow night? Sam wants to have this fancy dinner and I thought you might wanna go with me.”

          “Me?”

          “I ain’t talking to Casper here, Cas. Yes, you. Sam's gonna be mooning at Jess all night and I never know which fork to use. Figured it'd be nice to have a brother in arms. We can revolt against the wait staff or somethin.”

          “Isn't tomorrow Friday night?”

          “Yeah. That a problem?”

          “I'm sorry, Dean. I can't go.”

          “Why not? Got a hot date?” Dean chuckled.

          “Yes.”

          “What?”

          “I do have a date for tomorrow evening.” 

          Dean was searching his face. Cas didn't know what for. Maybe a smirk, a goofy look to say  _ just kidding.  _ Did Cas really have  _ undesirable _ stamped on his forehead, just for Dean?

          “Oh. Cool. Yeah, no, that's cool man. Who's the lucky lady? Or dude. I don't judge.”

          “Meg,” Cas said, scraping the tines of his fork against his pancake. It was probably cold now, soaked through with syrup.

          Dean scoffed. “Meg as in  _ hot for teacher  _ Meg? The chick who brought us that Chinese food?”

          Cas nodded. 

          Dean's eyes were wide with disbelief. He was shaking his head as he leaned back against the opposite counter. 

          “I can't believe it, man. Why her?”

          “Because she asked me out, Dean.”

          Dean shook his head again, crossed his arms. “I don't get it, Cas. You know she's just screwing with you, right?”

          Cas tensed his jaw. “She is not.”

          “No? Dude, I saw the way she flirted with you. Sure, she thinks you're hot because I mean,” Dean waved a hand up and down Castiel’s body, “you know. But she's not the kind of chick who wants to settle down, get all white picket fence and apple pie with you. I don't even think she's into dudes.”

          “This may be surprising to hear, but some people  _ are  _ actually attracted to me, Dean. Some people actually  _ want _ me,” Cas snapped.

          “ _I_ _know_ , Cas.” 

          Silence. Cas checked the time on his phone. Cleared his throat.

          “I should go.” He looked down at his — Dean’s — clothes. Dean caught the look, waved him off. 

          “Keep ‘em, bring ‘em back later, whatever. They look better on you anyway.”

          Cas had a lump in his throat as he got his shoes and coat on. Dean walked him to the door. He stood in the doorway, becoming a distant shape in Castiel's rearview mirror.


	8. Chapter 8

           Castiel never would have entered the bar of his own free will. Harvelle’s Roadhouse was in the dusty outskirts of the city, only surrounded by the occasional strip mall. His Volvo was one of the few cars among all the motorcycles. 

           Meg was already in a booth when Cas walked in. She was speaking to a waitress, wearing a devilish grin.

           “Here he is now,” Meg said, nodded to Cas as he approached.

           “So you're the mysterious Castiel, huh?” the waitress asked. Her words had a soft, Southern roundness. “We were startin’ to think you weren't gonna show up.”

           Cas tried not to grimace. He was fifteen minutes late but it was a miracle he had even shown up at all. He'd been distracted all day, replaying his fight with Dean over and over in his head. By the end of the day, Cas was in no mood to experience an uncomfortable first date.

           Meg eyed him as he slid into the booth. “Two burgers, Jo. And can you throw in those crispy fries?”

           Jo smiled. “So the regular?”

           “Only you can't have any this time. Clarence here needs to eat.” 

           “Coming right up.”

           Jo walked away, disappearing into the back somewhere. Meg stared down Castiel. He tried not to fidget. 

           “I've never been here before,” he said, looking away from her.

           “Color me surprised.” 

           Cas cleared his throat. “Do you come here a lot?”

           Meg shrugged wryly. “What can I say? I love the company.” 

           She nodded to the bar, crowded with grizzled men nursing their drinks and grimacing at each other. Cas couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.

           “You look terrible, Castiel.” 

           “Where's that mechanical bull you mentioned?” 

           “I made that up. Don't change the subject. What's with the face? You look more ‘kicked-puppy’ than usual.”

           Cas looked to the rafters. Right now, Dean was in a charming restaurant with Sam and Jessica. He was probably sitting next to Lisa and holding her hand. He was probably smiling in that way that melted Castiel’s heart, his tongue stuck between his teeth and his eyes bright.

           “Seriously, Clarence. What's the matter?”

           “Nothing.”

           “Say that all you want. I saw you the other morning. It's not exactly a Castiel thing to do, getting hammered on a school night.”

           Cas tilted his head. “Do you interrogate all your dates or just the ones with ‘kicked puppy’ faces?”

           Meg blinked at him and smiled. “Feisty. C'mon, Castiel. This isn't a date.”

           “It's not?”

           “No. See, a date usually happens between two people who are actually interested in each other. Dates aren’t a revenge thing.”

           Cas’ heart thumped. “Who said anything about revenge?”

           Meg raised a brow, as if to say  _ you really think I wouldn't notice? _ “You show up to work with a hangover and suddenly agree to go on a date with me, the resident bad girl, after never paying me any mind before? That reeks of spicy, spicy payback. What is it? Mommy take away your allowance?”

           “Here ya go. Two burgers, extra fries for the pretty boy,” Jo said, setting two plates on the table. “Y'all need anything else?”

           Cas leaned on the table and put his head in his hands. “Caffeine, please.” 

           “Booze for me,” Meg said. 

           “Soda and a whiskey, got it.”

           They were silent for a minute after Jo left. Cas wiped his hands down his face and sat back in his seat.

           “I had an argument with… a friend. Yesterday.”

           “And you're still broken up over it because…?”

           Cas wrinkled his eyebrows. “Because…”

           He tried to pinpoint it, craft a definitive answer. Because Dean was his friend? Because Dean didn't think anyone could find Cas attractive? Or because—

           “You like them,” Meg said. “You like-like this friend. You wanna hold hands in the retirement facility and spoon-feed them butterscotch pudding.”

           Cas couldn't help but laugh. “I think he'd be the one doing the spoon feeding. He has a rule about it.”

           “Wow, you two are made for each other. Why are you here with me and not off mooning at your man?”

           “Because we fought and… because of Lisa.”

           “Lisa? Not the hot chick who your supposed to be making a match for.”

           Cas nodded. Meg grabbed a french fry from Cas’ plate and chewed contemplatively. 

           “Hmm. What was the fight about?”

           “It doesn't matter, Meg.”

           “Humor me.”

           Cas grabbed the ketchup and poured some on his plate. He swirled a fry through it like he was painting a ward against this question.

           “It was about you. He wanted to know why I couldn't go to this dinner with him tonight and I told him I had a date. Then he said that you were… ‘screwing with me.’ That you weren't even interested in men.”

           Meg whistled keenly, pointing a fry at him. “That boy of yours has one finely-tuned gaydar.”

           “Excuse me?”

           “I mean, he's right. I'm not interested in dudes. Like, you're hot and all but really you're just fun to make squirm.”

           “So Dean was right.”

           Meg’s eyes widened. “The Ken doll who keeps trying to ‘casually’ stop by and see you?”

           This caught Cas off-guard. “He's been doing what?”

           “Okay, he did it once. This morning, actually. He had those sad boy eyes too, now that I think about it.”

           Cas picked a sesame seed off his burger. “What did… um. Did he…”

           “He asked to see you. I told him you were with a client and he could wait. And then he set his box of chocolates and flowers on the desk and left.”

           “...What?”

           Meg took a bite out of her burger, making him wait while she chewed. It was torturous.

           “Okay so there were no flowers. But,” Meg said, wiping her mouth, “he said something about how you’re a great guy and I should be so lucky. Then he left.”

           “Why didn’t you tell me?”

           “Because most of our clients do weird crap like that all the time. You would never want them in your office if I told you about all their shenanigans. Though, it sounds like Hasselhoff here was actually trying to be sweet. Tell me again why aren’t you licking whipped cream off him right now?”

           “He’s with someone. Besides… he isn’t interested in me that way.”

           Meg raised a brow. “No offense, Castiel, but you’re a real dummy. That dude is definitely into you. I don’t know what the deal is with his girlfriend but he is certifiably cuckoo for cocoa puffs into you.”

           Cas didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to tell her that there was no possible way someone like Dean would want to be with someone like him. So he changed the subject.

           “To be clear, you wouldn't want to ‘get white picket fence and apple pie’ with me?” Cas asked.

           “No way.” Meg looked to Jo, who was bringing their drinks over, her hair a golden halo in the dim light. “Not with you, Clarence.”

           That was the softest look Cas had ever seen grace Meg’s face. 

           Jo set their drinks down and put her hands on her hips. She looked to Meg. “Down that quickly. I wanna see you on Larry. Could use a little entertainment after the night I've had.”

           “Larry?” Castiel asked.

           “The mechanical bull,” Meg said, still staring at Jo.

           “I thought you made that up.”

           Meg gave him the briefest look. “I lied.” She turned her attention back to Jo. “Ellen again?”

           Jo nodded. “She says she’s just cranky. Honestly, I think she's lonely. She hasn't been with anyone since Dad left.”

           Meg reached for her hand. “If you wanna see me on Larry, you better get me some more whiskey.”

           “Which one is Ellen?” Cas asked.

           Jo looked at him like she only just noticed he was there. She turned and pointed to an older woman behind the bar, presumably Ellen. She was pouring a drink and wearing a cross expression as she spoke to a customer. 

           Cas put some cash on the table and told Meg he was going to leave. He offered his untouched burger to Jo, who happily accepted. Meg grabbed his wrist as Jo slid into the booth. 

           “Go after your man. Sounds like he's your unicorn,” Meg said.

           Cas raised a brow. Meg sighed. 

           “He's your special someone. Don't let him go.”

           Cas smiled and glanced at Jo. “Same to you.”

           He made his way to the bar. Ellen stopped in front of him.

           “What can I get for ya?” she asked.

           “Hello. I'm Castiel Novak and—"

           Ellen sighed and pulled a sheet of paper from beneath the bar. She set it in front of him. It was a job application.

           “Fill that out, front and back, and we'll get back to ya. You gotta pass a background check though. Don't go thinkin’ that afterhours Wall Street look of yours will do you any favors.”

           “Oh, I wasn't actually going to apply.”

           Ellen folded her arms, cocked her head. “Really? Where’re you workin’ at?”

           Cas cleared his throat. “A local business downtown.”

           “Hmm. You like workin’ there?”

           The way she was looking at Castiel said she already knew the answer. Ellen had an unwavering gaze that reminded Cas of Bobby. They both looked at him like they could tell exactly what was going on inside his head.

           “I wouldn’t mind a change of profession,” Cas said carefully, folding a corner on the application.

           Ellen nodded. “Well then, you keep that. Hope to hear from ya soon. Now, what're you drinkin’?

           “Nothing. Actually, I was wondering if you've heard of Singer Auto.”

  
  


* * *

 

           The next morning, slumped over his desk, Cas felt unfocused and strange. He had paperwork splayed on the desk before him but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything with it. Last night had stirred up so much confusion in his mind, it felt like it was going to burst.

           There was, of course, the matter of the job application. It was tucked inside his glove box, right next to the auto shop referral. 

           He wanted to lie to himself, pretend he hadn’t sat in his car last night with the application on the dashboard and a pen in his hand. But he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t, when it now sat somewhere in Ellen's office, filled out, front and back.

           However, the true distraction was the continuous loop in his head, playing and replaying his conversation with Meg.

           Cas had been so  _ sure _ that Dean wasn't interested in him. It stung but he had started making peace with that fact. But knowing Dean had tried to visit him yesterday was like a spotlight of sun shining through a gray sky. It made Cas hopeful, even when he knew that hope would just end up getting him crushed even further.

           "What is this?"

           Castiel looked up from his paperwork. Naomi stood in front of his desk, gripping a file. He hadn't heard her come in.

           Though Naomi wore her usual  _ I'm a professional  _ expression, it was more pinched, tight around the eyes and mouth. Castiel knew from years of experience that she was grinding her teeth. Castiel also knew that it was a Saturday morning and he was supposed to be the only one here. 

           "I don't know. What is it?" Cas asked, trying not to panic.

           He knew exactly what it was.

           "Dean Winchester and Lisa Braeden? This is not a match, Castiel." Naomi tossed the file on his desk.

           "Excuse me?"

           "Lisa Braeden withdrew from the program last night. She called me personally. She said that she was no longer interested in finding a match and wanted to focus on her son. Then today my assistant brings me that." Naomi pointed to the file. "It's time stamped for this morning. You completely fabricated their relationship. Why, Castiel?"

           "I didn't—" Castiel tried, but Naomi cut him off. She paced the length of the desk, not looking at him.

           "I can only think of two reasons why. Either you are so desperate for money that you're seeking the bonus that comes from creating a match, a bonus I did  _ not _ mention during your orientation, or you're hiding something."

           Castiel's heart raced.  _ She knows about Bobby _ . Naomi stopped her pacing, leaned on his desk. She towered over him. Her shoulders blocked out the light.

           "You have never done what you're told, not completely. Not then, not now. I tried to save you. Yet you seem to be past saving. A broken record."

           "What are you talking about?"

           " _ Your relationship with Dean Winchester! _ " Naomi yelled.

           Castiel blinked. Naomi looked shocked with herself, like she hadn’t expected to drop her guard. She went quiet. The silence seemed like a delicate thing, too easy to shatter. Naomi smoothed her skirt, regained her composure.

           "This is all too familiar, Castiel. You and that terrible boy from school. I told you to stop seeing him. I tried to bring you salvation. Yet you disobeyed. You  _ rebelled.  _ And now, here we are again. How many times will you hide this sin from me?"

_            Sin _ . A word branded on Castiel's heart since he could remember. Memories flooded in, memories of his days at Eden Christian School for Boys, the times he had spent in Gadreel's bedroom with the word  _ sin _ reverberating in his mind. How had he cried the first time Gadreel kissed him.

           He carried that feeling of shame even after he and Gabe had moved out. He knew it was a shame that Gabe felt too. But Castiel had carried the weight of it too long. He'd spent too much time trying to get rid of it. He couldn't let Naomi make him feel small again.

           "I am not in high school anymore," Castiel said, rising from his chair. "Who I choose to date, who I choose to  _ love _ , is none of your business. My feelings for Dean Winchester are not an object for your scrutiny nor are they a sin."

           Naomi blinked at him, opened her mouth. Castiel cut her off.

           "If you're creating an environment in which  _ bisexuals _ —" he loved how she flinched "—are unwelcome, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to resign."

           Castiel grabbed Dean's file from his desk and the interview notebook from its shelf. He faced Naomi and squared his shoulders. "Effective immediately." 

           He didn't shut the door behind him.

  
  


           Castiel drove down the highway, flying at seventy miles an hour. He felt free, like someone had removed their hand from his throat and he could finally breathe again. There was a steady thrumming in his chest, an adrenaline rush. He couldn’t tell what was exciting him more: leaving a place he didn’t belong or going somewhere he did. 

           Rain was pouring down, pattering against the hood of his car. It was coming down in sheets by the time he reached Dean’s house. 

           Cas eyed the front door, a dirty smear through the rain. He didn’t know what Dean would say. He didn’t know if Dean even wanted to see him. But he wanted to see            Dean and that had to count for something. Cas braced himself, got out of the car, and sprinted for the door. 

           He was soaked through in an instant, rain seeping through his thin button up and chilling his skin. It didn't matter. Cas knocked on the door and waited. 

           "Dude, it's before noon on a Saturday. You better be a strippergram or I'm going back to bed," Dean said, rubbing his bleary eyes. He stopped, noticing who it was. "Cas? What're you doing here?"

           Cas’ mind went blank the moment Dean opened the door. Everything he’d planned to say was gone, replaced with that image of Dean in pajamas and messy hair, ready to charm a stranger at ten in the morning. 

           “Hello, Dean,” Cas said. He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I… uh. I found a match. For your father. I found a match for him.”

           Dean’s eyebrows crinkled together. “You did?”

           “Yes. Her name is Ellen. She’s agreed to go on a date with your father. You just have to—”

           “Tell him me and Sam went behind his back to get him laid. Great.” Dean sighed.

           Cas put his hands in his pockets. “I think it would be worthwhile. They seem very compatible.”

           Dean nodded along, wiped a hand down his face. There was something guarded about the way he glanced up at Cas. Suspicious, even. “So uh, not that it’s not great to see ya, but couldn’t you have… I dunno… texted me?”

           “I actually wanted to bring you the file because—” Cas looked down and realized his hands were empty. He glanced back at his car, where the file sat in the passenger seat. “Um. I left it in the car. I’ll go get it.”

           Thunder cracked, loud and close. Dean grabbed his arm before Cas could get down the stairs. “Cas, c’mon. You’re freakin’ shivering, man. Just come inside, you can get the stupid file later.”

           Cas stood just inside the door while Dean went to get a towel. Dean came back with a towel  _ and _ a stack of clothes. 

           “Dean, really, it’s fine—”

           Dean held up a finger. “Don’t even try it. You’re not gettin’ past the door until you’re dry.” He pointed to the hardwood floor. “This sht is mahogany.”

           Cas ran a hand over the  _ Led Zeppelin  _ logo on the shirt. “Understood.”

           “Good. Make it quick, I think it’s warping already,” Dean said. He turned to leave, giving Cas privacy to dry off and change, as much privacy as one could have in an open foyer.

           “Where are you going?” Cas called after him, setting the clothes on the floor. 

           Dean paused in the doorway. “To get coffee?”

           “Wait for me.”

           This made Dean pause. He looked around the room like he was about to be the victim of a prank. “Wait for you… Here?”

           Cas nodded, unbuttoning his shirt. Dean eyed the skin at Cas’ chest. He raised a brow but sat down on the staircase, leaning back on his elbows. Dean cleared his throat.

           “So, uh. How’d you find Bobby’s match?” he asked.

           Cas continued undoing the buttons on his shirt, grateful to get the damp fabric away from his chest. He struggled with one button, his fingers stiff with cold.

           “At a bar. Harvelle’s. Ellen owns it, actually.”

           “Never heard of it.”

           “It’s nice,” Cas said, pulling the shirt off. Dean made a noise, which quickly became a cough. “They have a mechanical bull.”

           Cas grabbed the towel and ruffled it through his hair. Dean fiddled with his watch. 

           “Cool, cool. Didja ride it? That would’ve been a sight to see.”

           Cas dropped the towel, removed his shoes and socks, and started to remove his belt. “I didn’t. Though Meg seemed fond of it.”

           “Right,” Dean said to the floor, “Meg. How’d your date go anyway?”

           Cas kicked off his slacks. “It wasn’t a date.”

           That got Dean to look up, his ears turning pink. “Um… it wasn’t?”

           “Nope.” Cas tried not to look directly at Dean, instead focusing on pulling up the borrowed jeans, yanking the shirt over his head. “Just a night out with a coworker. Or, ex-coworker, I should say. You know, friend stuff.”

           “Oh. That’s uh, that’s good. Friend stuff is good,” Dean said.

           Cas wrapped up the damp clothes in the towel and came to sit next to Dean on the stairs. “I agree. So how was your evening? Did you take Lisa to that dinner?”

           Dean furrowed his brows at him. “No. I went alone. Made me look like an idiot, especially when my brother’s telling me he’s getting married.”

           “He and Jessica are engaged? That’s good to hear.”

           “I know, right? I’m happy for ‘em,” Dean said. He tilted his head as he turned to look at Cas, a serious expression on his face. “Why did you think I’d take Lisa?”

           “Oftentimes, people like to take their significant other to important events.”

           Now, Dean just looked confused. “Significant other? Dude, Lisa and I aren’t dating. Not for real or anything.”

           Cas’ chest grew tight. “What?”

           Dean was searching his face, confusion turning to realization. “You thought we were going out? Like actually together?”

           “Well, yes. I just figured… well… given your history....”

           “No. No, no. Cas, we were just going to meet up to talk.  _ As friends.  _ I was only calling ‘em dates cause you wanted me to.”

           Cas wiped his hands down his face. He’d known that he could be oblivious to social cues — Gabe had told him enough times — but this was a whole new level for his lack of awareness.

           “Did you really think I was interested in her when I was trying to go out with you?” Dean asked. He sounded frustrated. 

           Cas furrowed his brows. “You were  _ what _ ?”

           Dean blinked at him, stood up. He paced in front of the stairs for a minute, pressing his hands to his eyes. Cas had never seen him so disheveled while sober. Finally, he came to stand in front of Cas.

           “Dude. I’ve been flirting with you since we  _ met.  _ Not that pansy, coy crap either. The obvious, borderline weird, type of flirting. And I couldn’t tell if you were interested or not because you’re all stoic or whatever. And then, it's like suddenly you’re letting me fix your hair and feed you pasta and it seems like you’re flirting with me and, like an idiot, I think, ‘yes, finally, he gets it, I have a huge emotional hard-on for him.’”

           Dean dropped his gaze to the floor, licked his lips. “And then…” He gave a huffing laugh. “Then you tell me you have a date with someone else.”

           Cas’ heart dropped. A sick feeling grew in his stomach at the thought of inadvertently hurting Dean.

           “Dean, I didn’t know you felt this way. I have a bad radar for things like this, especially flirting. It usually has to be spelled out for me.”

           “Yeah, well, I hope the whole ‘emotional hard-on’ thing kind of spelled it out for ya.”

           Cas gave a small smile and stood up. “It did.”

           Dean swallowed. “Well, good. I don’t want you going around thinkin’ I unbutton my buddies’ shirts just to be friendly.”

           “That was flirting?”

           “Dude, I about took your shirt off. Maybe that ain’t flirty but it definitely isn’t just friendly.”

           “I suppose cuddling on the couch isn’t friendly either.”

           “Not really,” Dean said, rubbing a thumb over his own lip.

           Cas tilted his head. “Hmm. Just. While we're clarifying things, can you tell me some other times you were… um. Trying to…”

           “Get your attention?”

           Cas nodded. Dean made that turtle-like consideration face and looked at the ceiling. 

           “Well, I  _ could,”  _ Dean said, stepping closer. “ _ Ooor,  _ because I'm such a good ‘friend’, I could give you a live example. A free lesson.”

           “Because you're a good friend?”

            Dean nodded, that beautiful tongue-between-the-teeth smile brightening his face.

           “Alright. Teach me,  _ friend. _ ”

           “First, I'd say something stupid. Like uh… ‘Wow, Cas, your lips look pretty dry. Want me to fix that for ya?’”

           Cas snorted. “Yes, that is stupid.”

           Dean gave him a withering look. “It's all part of the  _ process.  _ Just lemme work my mojo, alright?”

           After Cas gave a nod of understanding, Dean took a deep breath like he was getting back into character. 

           “So, you being you, would probably say something dorky, like—"

           “Like ‘why do I need you to fix my dry lips? Do you have chapstick?’”

           Dean chuckled. “Exactly like that. And then I'd say, ‘No, I don't have chapstick, but I've got the next best thing.’”

           He stepped closer, right into Cas’ personal space. Cas could feel the soft exhale of Dean’s breath on his cheek. They looked at each other for what felt like forty years, eyes locking then wandering. Dean licked his lips and exhaled slowly.

           “And then I would—”

           Cas pulled him in, hand on the back of Dean’s neck. Cas pressed his lips to Dean’s and it felt like lightning. He pushed his hands through Dean’s hair as Dean kissed him again and again, deeper, with more desperation. Then Dean was pushing him against the wall, hands on Cas’ neck, on his chin, rough and calloused and perfect. Cas bit Dean’s lower lip and Dean groaned into his mouth.

            He ran a cold hand under Dean’s shirt, sliding up his ribs, wrapping around his back. Dean flinched at the chill but smiled into Cas’ mouth all the same. Dean was so _warm_ — his skin, his mouth, his breath on Cas’ cheek. Dean's tongue ran along the roof of his mouth and Cas felt like he was going to melt in Dean’s hands. 

       It was only when Dean pulled away that Cas noticed he needed air. He drew his hands from beneath Dean’s shirt, running his fingers through Dean’s hair again. Dean closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

           “Man, I r _ eally  _ hope you don’t do that with any of your other friends.”

           Cas grinned. “Just the ones who’ve seen me in my underwear.”

           Dean dropped his head to Cas’ chest and groaned. “I definitely want to see that again. I feel like I should make you dinner first though. Be a gentleman or whatever.”

           Cas grabbed Dean’s arm and checked his watch. “How about brunch?”

           “Perfect. It’s a date.” He kissed Cas’ neck. “Or should I say, a match made in heaven?”

           Cas huffed a laugh. “Considering what it’s taken to get us here, I’d say it’s more like a match made in hell.”

           Dean threw his head back and laughed that wonderful loud laugh. “Whatever. I still think you’re an angel.” 

           Cas drew Dean in for another kiss. Brunch could wait.


	9. Epilogue

          Cas turned the fabric over in his hands. It had been months since he had worn a tie. It’d been so long, he had forgotten that he only had the one. The tie pin with his name on it seemed to wink at him from within the blue material. Cas wrapped it around his knuckles and sighed.

          The door to his bedroom creaked open and Dean walked in, a towel slung low on his hips. He closed the door behind him and joined Cas in front of his dresser, dropping his dirty clothes into the hamper beside it.

          “Is Gabe gonna try to get that shaving cream prank off the ground every time I’m here?” Dean asked, kissing Cas on the cheek. 

          Cas shrugged. “It’s more than likely. I think he likes having someone new to show off to.”

          This made Dean laugh, head against Cas’ shoulder. “Sounds about right. What’s with the tie? Did it try something funny?” 

          Cas dropped the tie on the dresser top and went to sit on his bed. Dean was pulling on boxers and watching Cas closely.

          “Seriously, dude. Not to brag, but when I got in the shower, I thought I’d left you satisfied and smiling. This,” Dean said, finger drawing circles around Cas’ face, “Is not satisfied  _ or  _ smiling.”

          “I don’t have another tie.”

          “What?”

          “I don’t have another tie,” Cas repeated. “I only have the one Naomi gave me. The one with the—”

          “Ugly pin?” Dean asked, zipping up his slacks. He grabbed the tie off the dresser and held it up to the light. “Hmm. You could just… you know… wear it backwards. I’m sure Sam won’t mind.”

          Cas fell back onto his bed and covered his eyes. Then Dean gave a dramatic sigh that had Cas peeking out from under his elbow. 

          “Or,  _ I guess _ , you could wear…” Dean turned back to the dresser, rifling through the drawer Cas had given him last month. He pulled out a box and wagged it in the air at Cas. “This.”

          He came and sat next to Cas, set the box on Cas’ knee. 

          “Dean…” Cas said, sitting up.

          “Cas, just open the friggin’ box.” 

          He did. Inside was a tie, dark blue and patterned with—

          “Bees?” Cas asked with a smile.

          Dean shrugged. “I figured you’d like it. Especially after you made me watch that documentary on ‘em like three times.”

          Cas beamed at the tie in his hands, wondering how he’d gotten so lucky to have Dean in his life. He looked at Dean, who was watching him with that stupidly affectionate look that Cas loved.

          “So, did you get one for yourself?” Cas asked.

          Dean nodded and went back to the dresser. He shuffled through the drawer again and emerged triumphantly waving his tie like a flag in the air. Cas fell back onto the bed laughing. 

          “Hey, don't laugh!” Dean said, trying not to crack a grin. “The squirrel is a noble creature or whatever.”

 

          They both showed up to Bobby’s place wearing their goofy ties and holding hands. Dean knocked on the door, opening it as he led the way in. They followed the sound of laughter into the dining room.

          The room was strung with tea lights, the table covered in white linen and mismatched china. Though there were only a few people, the room seemed full of energy. Bobby leaned against the chair Ellen sat in. Sam stood with his arm around Jess, nodding at something Bobby was saying. Meg and Jo were sitting thigh to thigh and sipping wine.

          “There you boys are!” Bobby said, gruff and warm. “We were ‘bout to start without ya.”

          Dean went in for a hug from his father. “No way. What’s a wedding rehearsal without the best man?”

          “Still a wedding rehearsal, Dean,” Sam said. He made his way over to Cas as Bobby dragged Dean over to the table. Sam pulled Cas into a hug. “Hey, Cas. Thanks for coming, man.”

          Cas patted him on the back. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” 

          When they pulled away, Cas couldn’t help but notice the ridiculous moose tie that Sam wore. Sam caught the look and the snorting laugh Cas tried to stifle.

          “Oh. Yeah. Dean’s ‘pre-wedding’ present.” Sam chuckled. “It’s kind of a family joke. Looks like you’re in on it now too.” He nodded to Cas’ tie. 

          “I suppose I am, though I’m not exactly sure what it means.”

          Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “It means you’re a part of the family now. With Dean, that’s probably as good as a ring.”

          Cas looked to where Dean sat at the table, glowing under the tea lights and trying to arm wrestle Jo. He knew Sam was probably right. They went to join the others at the table.

          “What’re you smilin’ about, Castiel?” Ellen asked.

          Dean let Jo win, his hand slamming against the table and shaking the plates with the impact. Everyone erupted with whoops and laughter, Meg pulling Jo in for a victory kiss.

          “Nothing,” Cas said, still smiling.

          “Well, then. Hey, listen. You think you can hold down the fort for me tomorrow? Bobby and I are goin’ on a trip for the weekend. We wanna get outta town before the traffic gets bad.” 

          “Hold down the fort? You mean manage the bar?” Cas asked.

          Ellen nodded, taking a sip of wine. “Think you can handle it?”

          “Of course he can,” Dean said, leaning over and putting a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “He’s a freakin’ warrior. He can handle a few drunk bikers.”

          “I  _ do _ deal with Gabe before he’s had his morning coffee,” Cas said.

          “Well, consider it management training then,” Ellen said, raising her glass.

          A sharp whistle cut through the room. The laughter and conversation tapered off, everyone turning to face Bobby, who’d been the one to shut them all up. 

          “Sorry to ruin the fun, but we got a dinner to eat and speeches to practice. So y’all better grab a chair if ya want some grub,” he said, running a hand over his head. Bobby sank into the chair next to Ellen. She reached for his hand and Cas swore that was the first time he’d really seen Bobby smile.

          Jess gave the first speech, radiating joy as she said how glad she was that they were all here and that she was sorry her family could only make it out for the wedding next week. Then she talked about Sam and they looked at each other like they were the only two people in the world.

          The toasting moved around the table, next to Sam, then to Bobby, who specifically called Sam out for the whole matchmaker thing. Finally, there was Dean. 

          “If someone had told me when I was sixteen that my dweeb brother would be marrying a girl like Jess, I think I would have laughed ‘em outta the room. I probably would’ve laughed if someone had said the same thing about me and Cas getting together. But, uh, we’re here now. And I honestly have to thank you for that, Sammy. You… you found so much love with this wonderful girl and instead of trying to keep all that mushy crap to yourself, you spread it around. You kinda gave me hope that I’d find someone I could share all of that with.” 

          Dean looked down at Cas.

          “And then you introduced me to that someone personally. You know, when we were both sober. So what I’m getting at here is, thank you, I love ya, you’re the best brother I could have and I know you and Jess are meant to be. Now let’s drink and pretend I didn’t say any of that.”

          He sat back down and they all took a sip of their wine. Cas held Dean’s hand under the table. 

          After the dishes were all washed, after Meg and Jo had left, and Bobby and Ellen had gone to bed, Jess turned on some music, the slow, gentle kind. She and Sam swayed together in the living room, Billie Holiday crooning from the speakers. 

          Dean and Cas sat on the couch, Dean laying his head on Cas’ chest. Cas pressed a kiss into his hair.

          “So,” Cas said.

          Dean gave a contented sigh. “So.”

          “I’m the person you want to share all that ‘mushy crap’ with?”

          This made Dean chuckle, a warm thrum echoing into Cas’ chest. Dean gave the bee tie a soft tug. “Was this not clear enough? Or all those mixtapes I keep making you?”

          Cas laughed. “I suppose so.” He ran a hand along the fabric of the tie. “You know, Sam said that in your book, this is as good as a ring.”

          “Sam knows me too well.” Dean tilted his head to look at Cas. “Besides, I’ve been having trouble finding the right ring anyway.”

          Cas smiled. “The tie is enough, don’t you think?”

          “I do.” Dean grinned.

          “I do, too.”

          Dean settled back into Cas’ chest and Cas held him closer. Cas knew without a doubt that this, right here, was where he belonged.

 


End file.
